Shadows of the Past
by Historyman101
Summary: Conclusion of the Historical Eureka Seven Saga. 1945: Allied victory is at hand, but war never ends quietly. Renton and Eureka are committed to no more fighting, but such a task is easier said than done. One day, a ghost from Renton's past comes back to haunt him, and sends him back to the Soviet Union looking for answers. What he finds will shock him. Review Please! *COMPLETE*
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: What? Did you think I was gone forever? No, I wasn't gone; just busy with the last year of school, which just finished for me. Turned in my last final exam today, and I am officially D-O-N-E with graduate school. For good, this time.**

 **Still, I can't believe it. It's finally here. The last volume. It's been a long time in coming, and I've had to go through a lot to get here. Multiple jobs, my father's death, trips to Europe and Russia, and now the end of graduate school. I won't lie; for a while, I thought I would never see this day come. Sometimes it has been very difficult, but at long last, it's here. The volume is not yet finished; at this time, 14 chapters have been written out and another 8 or 9 are on their way. But after everything and after coming so far, it only feels right to post this now. Read on, enjoy, and please leave a review.**

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 **Disclaimer: I don't own the Eureka 7 franchise. The credit for the anime goes to Bones Studio and Bandai. I only own the story and associated original characters below. This is written for entertainment purposes only and I make no profit from this story whatsoever. While the story is based on historical events, it is a work of fiction. Any representation of actual people, places, events, etc. is purely coincidental.**

 _As the last Great War draws to a close, a boy and a girl fight their demons one final time._

 _After a long, costly campaign in Normandy, France, Renton Thurston and Eureka Novikova have had enough adventures, and enough killing. They return home to America and promise each other and themselves that Normandy was their last battle, and they would finally put the past behind them. However, as the Second World War reaches its denouement, and Allied victory is within reach, Renton and Eureka soon realize that war never ends quietly. One day, a ghost comes back to haunt Renton, and launches him on a quest to finally confront his past._

 _The conclusion of the Historical Eureka Seven series..._

 **Shadows of the Past**

 **Chapter One**

 **September 5** **th** **, 1944**

 **Richmond, California, USA**

A chilling breeze swept through the platforms, rustling stray leaves on the tiles and sending her dark blue dress afloat. It provided her only company, as no one else would stand on the platforms at this hour. Even if they were all coming home, they would arrive too late for anyone to be willing to stand and wait in the cold and the darkness. Jane Hart did not mind it at all.

When William came by her house and showed her the telegram from his brother, Jane could not contain her relief and joy. Through some miracle, Renton had survived. Eureka had survived. Everyone who went with him to Normandy, to fight for France and friendship, had lived. He would be home soon. She could make up everything to him soon. They could start over, on a fresh slate.

She still held a copy of the telegram in her hands, which trembled in the cold. The faded typed letters were her consolation, her chance for reprieve. After almost losing him twice, it was ever more important to put things right.

 _August 30_ _th_ _, 1944_

 _Paris, France_

 _Sent by: Renton I. Thurston, Free French Forces_

 _Received at: 7:08 pm_

 _BROTHER:_

 _PARIS IS LIBERATED –STOP- THE CAMPAIGN IS OVER –STOP- I LOST MANY PEOPLE ALONG THE WAY, BUT EUREKA HOLLAND AND OTHERS ARE STILL HERE –STOP- I DO NOT KNOW HOW IT IS POSSIBLE, BUT WE DID IT –STOP- SO GLAD TO BE ALIVE, WILL CATCH THE NEXT SHIP FOR NEW YORK IN A COUPLE DAYS –STOP- TELL EVERYONE I AM COMING HOME SOON!_

 _RENTON_

As she traced her fingers over the print, a mournful steam whistle blew in the distance, followed closely by rhythmic chuffing. Jane looked to her left, pushing aside a strand of golden blonde hair and saw the bright headlight of a troop train cast its beam down the tracks. Sabers flashing in the night. She shoved the telegram into her coat pockets as the train eased in to the station, slowly coming up on her platform. The locomotive's wheels gently turned, and the rate of chuffing slowed to short, labored puffs. All the while, her ocean blue eyes strained to find some sign of Renton in the windows of the passenger cars.

She traveled up and down the platform, searching for him. For them. The telegram wasn't a lie, surely! It had been a full week since the telegram was sent! This had to be his train!

Behind her, a door opened up, and soft chattering was heard. Jane's hair spun behind her as she looked, hoping to see the man she loved, lost, and found again.

Down the steps came a boy no older than her, carrying a bolt-action rifle and knapsack on his back. The weakness in his step onto the platform betrayed all the damage the campaign wrought upon him. Around the left pantleg of his knickerbockers were bloodied bandages, and gashes on the sleeves of his brown trench coat. His white socks were sullied with earth and grime and his shoes were scuffed, holes in the soles.

She recognized the melancholy, tired look in his dark green eyes in an instant.

A small tear hit the platform as she sobbed in rejoice.

Renton slowly turned, and saw Jane standing firm and alone, like a Bedouin on the desolate Sahara. She was the only one who came to greet them. As his small, weary entourage filed out, he wanted to approach her, and she to approach him. Each felt the urge to welcome the other back, to make amends, and to put their past troubles away. But Renton couldn't move. Was it the wound in his left thigh, still stinging, or something else?

No matter how many times either of their brains commanded, neither had the strength to move. After all they had been through, was there any hope for reconciliation?

Jane tried to call out to him now that he saw her, but a sharp pain struck her stomach and sucked any oxygen out of her lungs to form words. It felt akin to a boxer's punch. Each time she opened her mouth, all she could do was cry and struggle. What on earth could she say to him after being away for so long? Why couldn't she walk towards him?

Through her teary eyes, she saw Eureka, dressed in a dark blue coatdress with a matching capelet, step down onto the platform and rest a hand on Renton's tired shoulder. She whispered to him words Jane could not catch, and nodded. Her grey eyes softened, and her thin lips formed a gentle, friendly smile.

"I know why she is here, Rentoshka. It's alright. Let it all out. Both of you need it."

Swallowing the lump on his throat, Renton nodded slowly and turned his attention back to the golden-haired girl. Each step he took, he still felt the effects of his wounds burning his skin. But he did not care. Renton knew he was going to be fine, now that he was finally home. Where he belonged.

On the other side, Jane heard him wince with every step he took. His leg, Jane thought. He must have been wounded terribly. How did he survive Normandy? What had he seen?

Not wanting to make Renton suffer more, Jane sprinted at an Olympic runner's pace. The oak brown-haired boy's arms were outstretched, anticipating her.

Jane almost leapt into his arms, bawling the way a small child would. She could feel the dirt of France clinging to his coat and sullying her dress. She reveled in it, as it was proof he was alive. Alive and finally home.

"Renton...I'm...I'm so sorry…"

"It's okay," he said softly. "I'm home, now. I'm here. I'm back."

As tears mixed with grime and sand, Jane's lips found their way onto Renton's cheek. It was rough, but for Jane, it was proof he was standing in front of her. Battered, but unbroken. As strong, as tall, and as resolute as he had been since the day she met him. It was what she loved the most about him. As another tear escaped Jane's eye, Renton's left leg buckled, and he almost collapsed.

The British girl managed to catch him, his hands resting on her shoulders. As he tried to regain a firm footing, she noted his injury.

"Your leg. You've been wounded, haven't you?"

"It went right through. I'm going to the doctor to see what can be done about it."

"Renton, dear…please…"

Her delicate hands held his face, and she found herself lost in his strong green eyes. How could he endure such pain? How could he always keep going, in the face of utter despair?

"…don't ever go away again."

"I promise I won't. That was my last battle. I'm not going anywhere ever again."

She rested her head against his, quietly sobbing, but smiling. Now was the chance to start over. To make up for past errors. She knew he'd never love him, but she always had a friend in him. In the end, that was enough for her.

»»»»»

 **September 7** **th** **, 1944**

 **Bellforest, California, USA**

Renton, Eureka, Dominic, and Anemone had to return to school almost immediately, and were expected to catch up on the days they spent travelling. To Holland, it seemed almost unfair that they, still recovering from the grueling experience of Normandy, had to go back to school. Surely, they deserved some respite like anyone else? The two militiamen who survived did not want to leave their respective homes. But a call from Colonel Volkov dispelled any notion of reprieve.

They still had to report to the higher ups about what had transpired in those three months. Who died, who lived, who was wounded, and who was fit for duty. Talho Yukieva and her comrade Corporal Weaver hardly knew how to report back. What on earth could they say to describe the horror of losing every friend they had? How could they say with straight faces that two shell-shocked corporals were all that was left of their platoon?

There was an air of resentment between the two militiamen as they walked downtown towards the militia office. What gave the upper brass the right to pester them after the hell they just stepped out of? Will they even give a damn about the fallen soldiers who valiantly fought to the bitter end?

All those questions and too many more to count filtered through their minds with each clop of their boots. Talho could only sigh with a shaky breath as she and Weaver walked side to the office. Holland, who was right behind Talho, tried to ease the tension.

"This is going to be pleasant, huh?" Holland asked, jokingly.

Talho laughed quietly despite herself. Just like Holland to crack wise even after braving storm and fire.

"I just want to go back to bed…" Weaver complained with a yawn. Talho shrugged diffidently.

"It can't be helped, Weaver. We all knew this day would come."

"How do you think the Colonel will take it?"

"I'm more concerned with whether he believes us or not."

Holland raised an eyebrow at his lover's apprehension.

"Why wouldn't he? Just because you're both NCOs?"

"For a lot of reasons," the two militiamen said in unison.

They were greeted by a sentry dressed in a grey overcoat holding a Garand rifle with an attached bayonet at attention. He sharply saluted the two weary militiamen as they went up the concrete steps, but Holland was stopped, staring down the muzzle of the Garand.

"Halt. State your name and business."

"Ease it, private," Weaver corrected. "He's with us."

The guard backed off, and allowed the three up. To Talho, the door seemed a gateway to the darkness. She back away slightly in a mixture of fear and sadness, unwilling to break the truth of their horrendous losses. Her shoulder was met with a soothing hand. Holland's strong, protective hand.

"It'll be okay. I'll be right here. Just take it easy, yeah?"

Talho's hazel eyes met her beau's icy blue ones, and from that instant, she trusted his assuring words. With a deep breath, the female corporal approached the door and grabbed the knob.

Through a small corridor was the front office and waiting for her was none other than Colonel Volkov, commander of the 303rd Regiment, standing by a window in full dress uniform. Talho was instantly reminded how the uniform, reminiscent of the Russian Imperial Army before the Revolution, was so outdated. Much like many of the brass.

As Volkov turned himself around, and his white goatee and mustache curled with his smile as he greeted the militiamen and their teenaged escort.

"Ah, there you are, Corporals! Come in, come in."

As the trio entered the office, Holland closed the door behind them and stayed close to his lover's side. The Russian boy had learned from his hard lessons in Normandy. He came close to losing Talho because of his unwillingness to be emotionally available to her. He vowed to never make that mistake again.

Other officers that passed by looked askance at him, but Holland Novikov didn't care. He was simply here to support the girl he loved most. Denisov himself ordained him as her protector, her guardian. He had to watch over her now.

Volkov counted the militiamen and did not like what he saw. The warm smile quickly was dispelled by a suspicious grimace, wondering just what happened to them over those three months. He eyed Talho with a sharp look as he asked the question she dreaded to hear.

"Corporal Yukieva, when I gave Lieutenant Denisov his orders three months ago, there were 25 of you. Where is the rest of your platoon?"

Talho's mouth went dry, and she almost choked when she tried to explain. Weaver tried to cover.

"We ran into some trouble in Normandy, sir. You see—"

"I wasn't asking you, Corporal Weaver."

Weaver pursed his lips and relented. Talho, standing still at attention, tried her best to hide the anguish she still felt. However, the trembling in her hazel eyes betrayed everything to Holland. The colonel's beard twitched as he asked again.

"I said, where is the rest of your platoon, Corporal Yukieva?"

Talho looked to Weaver for some form of guidance on what to say. He only nodded solemnly, and it was all she needed. She slung her knapsack off her shoulder and opened it, searching for something. Volkov seemed puzzled as her hands sifted through all manner of equipment and rations for what she wanted. What she produced made him go pale and his eyes to widen to the size of ping-pong balls.

Clutched in her hand was a collection of military dog tags, all tied together. The clatter of the tags on the wooden desk echoed through the office with a sorrowful portent. Her lips quivered as she explained.

"They're…all here, sir. Present and accounted for."

Volkov approached the desk, and examined the bundle of tags. Each bore a soldier's name, serial number, blood type, religion, and the unit to which he belonged. As he read each tag, Talho began listing the names of the fallen.

"Second Lieutenant Ivan Denisov, Staff Sergeant Ruslan Nechayev, Sergeant First Class Jacob Dougherty, Corporal William Greene, Technician 5th Grade Stephen Parsons…"

So she went through the entire roster of her platoon, until her eyes welled up with tears and her voice cracked. When she could not carry on, Weaver continued the catalog of their dead friends and comrades. Holland in the meantime tried to comfort Talho with a warm, soft embrace.

For what felt like hours, Volkov could not say anything, as he was too soaked in shock. Denisov, an officer he trusted and liked, was killed in action. An entire platoon was destroyed. He only thanked God that he did not choose to send the entire regiment, lest he have more dog tags on his desk. However, questions soon began to circulate through his brain. How did these two survive?

"Then tell me, you two. Why are you both still alive and everyone else is dead?"

Silence held a firm grip on the two soldiers at that question. What was the colonel getting at? Did he have such little faith in them? Was he expecting them to bite the dust when the time called for it?

"What are you saying, Colonel?" Talho cried in disbelief. "We survived because we had to. We were fighting our way to victory for our comrades! We didn't want their sacrifices to be in vain. We owe it to them to keep living!"

"It just turned out that way, sir," Weaver put in, solemnly. "Little by little we kept taking hits. Somehow we managed to avoid getting the worst of it. I don't know how else to explain it."

Volkov's eyebrows furrowed skeptically.

"Sheer, dumb luck, Corporal Weaver? Or did you two manage to save your skins and better your chances at everyone else's expense?"

The accusation struck a nerve with Holland in the worst way possible. During his time in Stalingrad, the dark days of his life, he was a partisan fighting for survival. He had to lie, cheat, steal, and kill to support himself and his family.

Longtime friends and classmates forsook him to save their own skins. He did the same.

His allies took advantage of his kindness and turned it against him. He did the same.

Those were painful memories he longed to repress. And yet, he was forced to confront them many times back in Normandy. Talho was a polar opposite to Holland. She would never abandon anyone, not even strangers.

For this man, this so-called adult, to even question Talho's capabilities, was insulting and disrespectful. It went against what she stood for. What she meant to him. Without any hesitation, the dark-haired boy took a step in front of Talho as a shield. He would tolerate no psychological torment done on her.

"Wait just a goddamned minute here! Talho would never leave her comrades behind. I can just tell from the way you speak to her that you don't know ANYTHING about her."

Holland glanced at his beloved before glaring back at Volkov.

"Talho Yukieva is a stubborn girl. She is stubborn, persistent, and unyielding. But she is also compassionate, kind, and determined. She has a sharp tongue and a straightforward mindset. She works hard until she sweats and bleeds. She wants to help everyone in any way that she can. Whether they are children behind enemy lines or a bumbling journalist, Talho will not turn her back on anyone! You don't have people like that in every military, Colonel. You should count your blessings and be grateful that Talho is so capable, mature, and strong for her age. Because, trust me, I am."

That long diatribe sucked any more accusations out of Volkov's mouth, and he was stunned into silence. Holland always had a rocky relationship with the militia since Denisov and Talho found him on the streets. They welcomed his help in tracking down Chertov during the assassination attempts, while simultaneously distrusting him for his Soviet origins and his closeness to Talho.

Volkov almost fell over the desk as he sat down. He was almost at a loss for words after Holland's tirade. Weaver spoke up to fill the void of silence.

"I can vouch for the kid, Colonel. Talho's a tough girl, and Normandy proved it plenty of times. We were all lucky to have her around."

All that was left was Talho's tears hitting the hardwood floors, Holland's icy glare, and an officer who lost one of his most trusted subordinates. What happened in Normandy was a hard blow, one from which it would take time to recover. Volkov did not want to hear anymore, and only ushered them out, saying to standby until further notice.

»»»»»

Never in her seventeen years of life had Anemone Doolittle felt such an intense feeling of relief, happiness, and peace. She was finally home, in her flat, where she rightfully belonged. The last three months in Normandy had pushed her to her limits, both mentally and physically.

The journey was relentless and terrifying. She had witness people die in the worst possible ways. She came face-to-face with death several times. Yet, somehow, she survived. Anemone managed to stay alive and in one piece. And now, here she was, sipping on a cold bottle of Coca-Cola while listening to the radio.

She rested her body on the cozy sofa while waiting for Dominic to come back from a meeting at the Army base near San Francisco. He had said that the officers had ordered him to arrive at the headquarters early in the morning sharp, and he would be gone all day.

Anemone wondered if her beau was going to finally be inducted into the Army. It would make sense, considering Dominic was involved in Normandy. Dominic deserved some kind of reward for risking his life in such grueling battles. She still remembered how Dominic balked at the idea of putting on the uniform in Paris before their victory march. It was natural after everything they had witnessed, but Anemone didn't want to see her boyfriend throw away his lifetime aspirations.

She didn't want him to give up, like she almost did.

Her azure eyes looked up at the spinning ceiling fan, and recalled that terrifying moment. When she wanted to run away from everything without looking back. When everything seemed lost, and their defeat was all but certain. When Eureka came and slapped some sense into her, and reminding the Irish girl of her obligations to everyone and to herself.

Suddenly, the soft jazzy melody on the radio was replaced by a faint whistling. One that grew louder as the seconds rolled by. It couldn't be...

BOOM!

A loud explosion almost knocked her off her sofa and the Coca-Cola off the side table. An attack? But by who? She was just at home!

When Anemone stood up and brushed off her white gown, she noticed the flat wasn't shaking. Everything was perfectly still, and yet she still heard bombs fall one after another. Then to add to the macabre symphony, machine gun fire spattered all around her. Was she hearing things?

She turned her eyes to the radio, and assumed the channel had suddenly switched. Anemone rushed over as if her life depended on it, and tried to change the frequency. She turned the knob, but the bombing only seemed to grow worse, and the machine gun fire grew closer. Every station sounded the same! What on earth was happening!?

Another bomb came screaming in, and the explosion left her with a ringing of church bells for a few seconds. Anemone fell to her knees, covering her ears to try and muffle the noise. What the hell was going on? Why hadn't Dominic come home yet? Why was she hearing these things when the worst of her trials had passed?

The ringing slowly receded, and instead, all she heard was the soft chords of Debussy's _Clair de Lune_ on the radio.

The fiery haired girl stood up slowly on her feet and uncovered her ears. Her forehead and palms were sweating profusely. She decided to go to the bathroom. She needed to splash some cold water on her face. Maybe that would help alleviate the stress and anxiety.

She approached the bathroom sink and proceeded to turn the right handle around. What happened next was blew her mind and terrified her.

Instead of crystal clear, clean water that flowed down on the sink, there was fresh crimson liquid. Anemone didn't have to think twice to know what it was. The thickness was too real. The metallic smell was all too familiar. It was blood.

Her eyes nearly bugled out of her sockets as Anemone let out a horrified scream. She ran out of the bathroom and tripped on the kitchen floor, falling on her front side. Not knowing what to do, whether she was living a nightmare or the real world, Anemone just laid there. She curled into a ball and began to sob.

A jingle of metal keys preceded an opening of the apartment door, and in walked Dominic, greeted by Anemone on the floor, whimpering like a frightened dog.

"Anemone? What the hell...?"

Anemone, still recovering, continued to sob until she heard Dominic's voice. Her blue eyes looked up at his gunmetal grey ones, in desperate need. She tried to reach out to him, but her legs refused to budge.

"I can't move..."

Dominic dropped everything he had and knelt down beside Anemone, caressing her body in a protective embrace. Stroking through her silky hair, he whispered soft words, words meant to shake her out of her dark place.

"It's okay. I'm here, now. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

Once Dominic helped her up, Anemone wrapped her arms around her lover, tightly. She sobbed into Dominic's chest for a good few minutes until she was calm enough to talk.

"I don't fucking get it, Dom! I thought we were finally away from the violence and danger. I thought we were done with all that madness! And now that we found peace, the past won't escape me. Why can't I forget about Normandy?!"

As he rubbed her head and cradled her, he remembered Renton's stories of nightmares, seeing things he shouldn't, hearing things he shouldn't. It was the mark of shell-shocked soldier. To this day, he still grappled with his horrible memories. His hands were still doused in blood.

"We can forget the past, but the past doesn't forget us..." he said to no one in particular.

They both sat on the sofa and tried to recollect themselves. The sobbing stopped, but Anemone's arms were still wrapped around him.

"Dom, are we going to be okay?"

"Sure, we are," he said, confidently. "I have you here, and you have me. That's all I need."

"And you are all I need, Dom. Always."

She looked around the living room and then at the carpet floor.

"I'm sorry. I was hearing and seeing a lot of messed up things just now. I thought there was an attack at our town. And I saw blood coming from the bathroom sink. At least, that's what I was thinking anyway."

She sighed, knowing that it was reality she was in. The proof was the man next to her.

"I'm not the same Anemone Doolittle yet. I don't know how long I'll be back to normal, but just bear with me, okay?"

Dominic smiled.

"I'll always love you, Anemone, no matter what. It's gonna take time to adjust, but I'm here."

The Irish girl nodded and embraced him once again. Dominic never let her down, not once throughout their three years together. There was no reason not to believe his words.

"So, what did the higher-ups want from you this time?"

He raised his eyebrows and picked up something off the floor he dropped. It was a bright, olive green uniform, the kind issued to soldiers when garrisoned. Then he put something in her hand. A pin, shaped in the form of a vertical brass bar.

"They gave me an officer's commission. I'm a second lieutenant, Anemone!"

The blue eyed teen's somber expression turned into a joyous smile. She jumped up like a giddy child on a bed, cheering. Forgetting her episode for the time being, she planted a passionate and tearful kiss upon Dominic. Once they broke away, Anemone showered Dominic with praise.

"That's amazing, honey! See, what did I tell you? I knew there was a promotion coming your way and I was right! I'm so proud of you, baby. We should celebrate!"

Dominic could only laugh, happy to know such news was all Anemone needed to turn her demeanor around. In truth, it was something at which he was still in amazement himself. He thought for a long time the war would end before he would get to put on the uniform.

In the back of his mind, he knew accepting the commission meant possibly going back. Leaving her behind. But none of that mattered for the moment, so as long as they were together now. So, he gladly took up her offer, and started calling every friend and classmate in town. Everyone was invited to share in the festivities. Even Renton, tired and still recovering from his leg, was all too happy to celebrate his friend's success. The war would be over soon, anyway, Dominic thought. Why not celebrate early?

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 **Author's Note:** **As a celebration for the end of graduate school, I'm going on a week-long trip to Switzerland. Another pet idea I have always had, and another trip Dad always wanted to do before his death. I will be back in time for Christmas, so expect another chapter update that week. Also, don't worry about me dropping off the face of the earth again; with school completely finished, I'm intending on taking a nice, long vacation with no jobs, no stress, only writing and relaxation. After three and a half years in school, I really, _really_ , need this.**

 **I'm back, guys.**

 **Historyman101**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I will keep this message short, since I am only now returning home via airplane (thank you United WiFi), but here is the second chapter just in time for Christmas eve. I saw a lot of cool things in Switzerland that has given me a bit of inspiration for how to end this story. Naturally I won't spoil it, but I think you will all like what I come up with. Also, I will be posting my entry for this year's Eureka 7 Secret Santa on ffnet in a couple of days. There is a tie in to this story, but nothing too spoiler-y for you. It will become apparent in later chapters.**

 **So with all that said, read on, review, enjoy and a Merry Christmas to everyone!**

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

 **September 30** **th** **, 1944**

The grey-haired boy stirred when the morning sun's rays hit his eyes. He groggily got up from the bed, noticing his girlfriend's absence. He left the room and spotted Talho in the kitchen, who had just finished completing the table with a small yet hearty breakfast meal. Surprised and pleased, Holland complimented her with a grin.

"Good to see you had the strength to get up today," he said, leaning on one of the walls.

Startled, Talho turned to see her beau up and about right on time. She easily relaxed and smiled.

"Well, I guess love had something to do with it."

The morning light cast a gleam on his gold teeth as he grinned and drew closer to her in the kitchen.

"Need my help?" Talho nodded.

"Actually, yes. How about eating this breakfast with me? I trust that you are a good taste tester."

As they both sat down to eat, Talho watched in slight anxiousness as she watched Holland take a bite of the scrambled eggs. They were the finishing touch of the breakfast after all.

Suddenly, Holland swallowed in satisfaction.

"No offense to my little sister, but you make eggs much better than she does."

The corporal's eyes beamed with bliss. She wasn't quite expecting such high praise. Her cooking surpassed Eureka's? That had to have been a grand achievement.

"Vyerna? Thank you, Holland."

"Eureka always made eggs too runny for my liking. I like them dry, with just a little bit of milk. Where did you learn to cook, Talho?"

"It was my uncle. He used to be quite the exalted chef in Sochi. When I was small, my parents and I went to visit him in San Francisco at occasion. Uncle thought I was meant to be a chef like him, though Father disagreed."

The short haired girl chuckled to herself as she remembered the times of her youth. Her chubby uncle's loving instructions, his feuds with her father, the fun they had spending time together in San Francisco. Her eyes were a little darker as she looked at her fork and butter knife.

"Things were so much simpler before the war."

Holland was about to ask another question until a loud rang of the phone interrupted their whole conversation. Talho looked over her shoulder and let out an agitated sigh. It was no doubt the insufferable colonel from yesterday. Unable to ignore the incessant ringing, Talho excused herself and walked over to the phone.

"Hello? Yes, this is Corporal Yukieva…good morning to you, too, colonel…"

As Holland sat silently at the table, his icy blue eyes stayed on Talho, taking note of her uneasiness and worry. Her shoulders raised up, hinting at a surprise reaction. Whatever could it be to evoke that, he wondered. The conversation lasted for no more than a minute as Talho placed the receiver back to the base.

Her black hair whipped around as she looked back at her boyfriend.

Holland's brow sank, and he instantly recognized what was the matter. Even after seeing hell, explaining everything to her superiors, and witnessing more death and loss than any girl her age would care to see, the militia still treated her as they always had. A busgirl. A maid. Someone to fetch cigars, mop the floors, and do dirty work.

"That was Colonel Volkov. He says he wants to meet with you as soon as possible."

His scowl softened. Why would anyone in the militia, least of all the regiment commander, want to see him? He wasn't in uniform. They all treated him with suspicion at best and contempt at worst. Thought of as a vagrant or a Soviet spy in disguise. Why the sudden change?

Granted, Denisov passed his judgment on him before his death, entrusting him to look after Talho. Yes, Corporal Weaver saw he was a capable soldier, fit to fight and lead. But why now? Why ask for him after coming back so soon?

"Did he give a reason?"

"No. He just wants you there when you have the chance."

Well, he thought, it's not like he had anything else planned for today.

He finished off what was left of his breakfast, and headed straight to the shower. He might as well indulge the colonel, if only to get him off his back faster.

»»»»»

It was about mid-morning when he finally arrived at the militia office in town. The Russian teen still had no idea what Colonel Volkov could want with him.

He looked up and there in the doorway stood the colonel, in full dress uniform as before. His stance reminded Holland of an old photograph his father showed him from when he was still a member of the Imperial Army. His trimmed goatee scrunched as he welcomed the teenager in.

"I came as soon as I could, Colonel."

"I know, lad. I know."

He waited for Holland to sit down on his chair before he followed suit. Once they were well adjusted, Volkov wasted no time talking.

"I will come right to the point. I severely overestimated the capability of Lieutenant Denisov and everyone in his platoon. To see only Corporals Yukieva and Weaver survive…well, it shocked me."

"There are times when I thought she wouldn't make it out alive either, sir. But she's a tough woman. I've seen that enough to know."

"Listen, there is a reason I called you in today. What happened to Denisov in Normandy proved that the 303rd Regiment is not well-trained enough to last long in combat. We need more men of experience, and we need the officers to train them."

Volkov leaned in, reaching for a cigarette.

"Holland Petrovich, this is not the first time you've supported us. I remember how you helped us catch that Chertov boy and his cohorts. We need your help again: the regiment is ready to give you a commission as a second lieutenant."

The young boy's toes curled up in his shoes at hearing this. The Militia always treated him with distrust. Why would they give him a commission now? He was just over 18. He was still waiting on his citizenship.

"We will talk to Immigration about getting you citizenship. After everything you've done for us and our country, I'd say you've earned it."

"Why me, sir?" Volkov's eyebrow raised as he blew smoke from his cigarette.

"What do you mean?"

"What I say. Why have you chosen _me_ , especially? I know Renton Thurston would be a better candidate for—"

"Tried him already. He said he wasn't interested, and thought you'd be a better choice. He vouched for you, saying that you were his 'right hand' in Normandy. You saved both his and your sister's skin in Stalingrad."

Holland was left in silence. Of course Renton would turn down an offer like this. He would not stop talking on the train back home that Normandy was his last fight. That he would start over, and make a life for himself away from this madness. In all honesty, he envied him for being so ready to walk away.

"So, how about it, lad?" Volkov posed again. "How would you like to work for us alongside Corporal Yukieva?"

What felt like hours went by as he considered the offer. It was serendipitous, really. His whole family seemed to be slated as soldiers. His father was a prominent general. His two eldest brothers were officers on the front lines. For a long time, he thought that would be his destiny, too. That is, until Renton entered Holland's life, and told him how no one can decide his future but him. That freedom was something he always lacked.

Throughout his life he struggled with what it was he wanted to do when he was older. The war robbed him of any chance to pursue any dreams he may have had. Instead he fought out of necessity, for survival. Not just for himself but for his sister and brother. His home. What the colonel offered him was much the same: a chance to fight not just for his new-found home, but for his loved ones and his soon-to-be brother-in-law. The difference now was Militia was giving him a choice.

That was when he remembered the promise he made to Denisov, dying on the Alexander Bridge. He would watch over Talho. He would protect her. He would stay with her for all time.

"I'd love to work with you, Colonel," Holland said, his voice heavy with deliberation. "But there is something I'd like you to do for me as well."

Volkov's seat softly creaked as he leaned back. Wafts of smoke circled around his greying head like a chimney draft on a cold day.

"If I am to be a second lieutenant, I'd like to see Corporals Yukieva and Weaver promoted to Sergeant."

"And the reason why?"

"Does it matter? I want them to serve under me; simple as that. And Corporal Yukieva deserves the promotion after what she has gone through."

Volkov took another puff from his cigarette as he sighed. He needed someone with experience; he'd do anything.

"I'll make the arrangements. Can I trust you to train the new recruits? The next time they're sent to fight, I don't want to explain to every family in the neighborhood why they're not coming back."

Holland smiled, his gold teeth shining with confidence.

"When I'm finished with them, the Germans won't be able to look them in the face."

The colonel nodded, reassured.

"That is what I like to hear. Report back here for your first assignment next Monday, and I'll have your uniform ready."

"Thank you…Colonel."

And with that, the new recruit was dismissed. He wouldn't know how it was possible for him to be a part of the militia. But, for Talho's sake, Holland vowed to never look back on his decision. From here on out, he will stand by her for all time.

»»»»»

 **December 15** **th** **, 1944**

The months passed as ordinarily as they could after the campaign. For Renton, it just meant returning to his normal routine. Going to school, working at the pharmacy, and trying his best not to think back to what he lost in France. It was devilishly hard to do when news of the war still bombarded the airwaves and showcased in movie theaters. Even with the great successes made in France, victory was still a long way off.

In Western Europe, the Allied Expeditionary Force tried and failed to invade Germany through the Netherlands in the autumn. The plan, Operation Market Garden, ruled out any possibility of the war in Europe ending by Christmas. Indeed, it was becoming more and more evident that the only way through Germany was crossing the Rhine and breaching the dreaded Siegfried Line. In the East, the Soviet Red Army struck blow after blow to the retreating Germans. By the close of autumn, Soviet troops were in eastern Poland, Romania, and were pushing into Hungary.

Likewise, in the Pacific, Japan was clearly on the ropes. Saipan was lost in the summer along with the rest of the Marianna Islands, and the last major Japanese fleet was destroyed at Leyte Gulf in October, which opened the door to an American invasion of the Philippines. Even with these crushing defeats, Japan fought on, if only out of a sense of honor. Even though the Axis Powers' situation was critical, it was not clear victory would arrive by year's end.

But as Christmas drew near, and the school semester wound down, Renton desperately wanted to get away from the war that seemed no closer to ending. The old family farm seemed the perfect place. He longed to see it again, not matter what state it was in. If only to assure himself there was still a home for him to which to return and reconstruct. If only to show Eureka what his life was like before all of this, and what he dreamed of doing in his adult life.

For that, he turned to his older brother and asked for a favor one night after coming home from the pharmacy. He asked if William would be able to have a car to drive home. Preferably, on a day when he would get home early.

When her fiancé had told her of their trip, Eureka was delighted. Ever since they had established their relationship, the girl wanted to know everything about Renton, including his old roots. Renton's recovery had been…steady, to put it mildly. Since returning from Normandy, she would wake up to Renton catapulting out of bed from a bad dream or two, needing to vomit or take a drink of cold water to calm himself.

This month was a little different, in a positive way. So it was that on the very same day the winter semester ended for Renton, he found William in an old blue Pontiac at the roadside in front of the campus. He could hear him honking as he ran down the steps, with Eureka close behind. William rolled down his driver's window and yelled,

"I have to have this car back by tonight, you know!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Renton said, opening the car door and allowing Eureka to go in first.

Once Renton was in, the blue car wasted no time in speeding off. William took a northerly course, cutting through downtown before driving right onto the main highway. After some time of William tensely navigating his way through streetlights and onto the open road, he finally had a chance to make some small talk.

"So, how were your final exams? Think you did well?"

"I think I did well enough," Renton answered. "I didn't have to break my neck over them, especially my history and English courses."

"I think I did pretty decent, as well," Eureka said with an ounce of uncertainty.

"You'll do fine, Eureka," William reassured her, smiling through the rear view mirror. "It's best to think positive when it comes to these things."

The snow eyed girl nodded, trying to hide her fidgeting.

"Thank you, William. I can't believe I'm finally going to the farm you were born in."

"To be honest," Renton confided, "I just hope it's still standing. We never went back there once we sold it after Mother died."

"There have to be some remains of it left. You can't know for sure, Renton."

The boy leaned his head against the window, watching a set of grey clouds roll behind the hills.

"I hope you're right, Eureka."

The road trip was uneventful, with small talk here and there and only the humming of the engine and faint music on the radio to keep them all company. The highway seemed to go on forever.

Eureka yawned as she leaned against her fiancé's shoulder. The faint scent of perfume left Renton with a euphoric feeling. Something Peggy gave her, no doubt. Her eyelids started to close as she drifted off to sleep and Renton looked closely at her appearance.

In her dark brown mane, she wore a small golden hairclip, to keep renegade strands out of her face. A faint sheen of sweat was on her brow, remnants of the stress from staring at exam papers all day. Even her hand felt slightly sweaty as it rested on his.

"Say, Will," he asked in as quiet a voice he could, "did it ever take this long to get to our house? I don't remember it being more than an hour when going into tow—AAHH!"

The car suddenly stopped and the young couple were almost slammed into the seat backs.

"Here we are, Renton," William said, instantly parking the car and getting out first.

"Rgh...did you have to brake so hard?" Renton griped at he tried to reach for the car door.

"That was a bit abrupt of you, Will," Eureka agreed, following Renton.

Any complaints they had about William's driving were thrown aside as Renton cast his eyes on his old homestead, the first he had seen it in almost ten years.

The farm consisted of two buildings: the farmhouse, and the barn, further behind. The farmhouse, painted a warm, sunny yellow with white trim, had obviously seen better days. The clapboard walls were splintered from age, and the remains of the veranda reminded Renton of thin bones from a dug-up grave. The barn likewise showed signs of age and disuse, with the double doors barely hanging on, as if dangling by a thread. Its silo's roof had hollowed out, leaving a gaping hole for rain and the elements to intrude.

"So…this is your old home…?" Eureka asked no one in particular, amazed by how long the farmhouse has been holding for God knows how many years.

It seemed similar to a fancy farmhouse in Normandy, granted there was a huge difference. William nodded, solemnly. He almost had no words for seeing his old nest again. For a long time, he thought for sure it had disappeared from existence.

"1644 Columbia Mills. Home."

"It _didn't_ fall to pieces…thank God…" Renton whispered to himself.

The young boy inhaled sharply, holding back tears as his mind was instantly flooded with memories. William gently squeezed his sibling's shoulder, consoling him. This was no dream. The house was still standing, as it always had during their youthful days.

"It's okay, brother. Want to go inside?"

"There's one place I want to visit first."

William seemed to instinctively know what he meant, and followed Renton to around the right side of the farmhouse. Eureka watched curiously as she followed them, wondering just what else the outside could show to them all. It soon became apparent as the two boys stopped in front of a small stone slab, sticking up out of the earth like a lighthouse above the fog.

Renton removed his hat, and gently knelt while William only looked on. The older brother's gloved hands were curled into fists. Not of anger, but of repressed sorrow. As Eureka came closer, and read the engraving on the tombstone, she knew instantly what she was looking at.

 _IN FOND MEMORY_

 _NATALYA IVANOVNA THURSTON_

 _16 September 1893—27 April 1935_

 _DEVOTED MOTHER AND BELOVED WIFE_

Eureka came beside Renton, who only stared at the engraving, lost in a trance. His green eyes shone with a small hint of salt and water gathering beneath the lids. His hands trembled as he reached out and gently touched the stone. As he heaved a great sigh, the stone seemed to weaken him further, and his head bowed gently in deference. The winds almost drowned out his soft whisper,

"I'm home, Mother. Both of us are."

"Renton…?" Eureka started, gently rubbing Renton's back. He raised his head and smiled, lips trembling as he faced her.

"It's too bad you never met her, Eurekasha," he said, his voice quivering. "I know she would have loved you like I do."

"If she birthed and raised you, Rentoshka, I'm sure she was the most wonderful woman in the world."

Eureka grasped at her beau's trench coat as he looked on somberly at the grave, the last testament to his mother's life.

"Mother," he said, braving a smile, "this is Eureka Novikova, my fiancée. She's from Russia, like you. She's the one person who's kept me living to this day. I hope you approve of her."

The young Russian reached and touched the stone, her hand next to Renton's. The hard stone greeted her with a coldness, but it didn't turn her away. Rather, for some strange reason, she felt welcomed. Like a visitor on a bright summer day.

"Don't worry about your son, Natalya Ivanovna," she said softly. "He's a good man; you raised him, after all."

William smiled, and gently nudged his younger brother. As the couple stood up, William pointed at the farmhouse.

"Shall we take a look inside?"

Renton nodded firmly as he looked on. There were so many great memories of their farm, joyous and sad. Tragic losses and rewarding gains. Everything that had shaped Renton and William was inside this ruined home. As the two brothers walked gingerly up the steps to the veranda, with Eureka close behind, small vignettes from their lives played out. The remains of a porch swing evoked images of the children basking in the summer sun. An old cowbell reminded Renton of their mother calling them in for dinner after running across the lawn. Every little piece of their lives was a piece of a larger memory.

"I guess the place was abandoned sometime after we sold it," William deduced, the floorboards creaking under his feet. "I never did hear much about it after we left."

"When did that happen?" Eureka asked.

"After Mother died, it was too difficult to pay the house mortgage, so we sold it. That was back in '35."

"Times were hard for everyone back then," Renton went on, his eyes wandering. "The entire neighborhood almost cleared out during the depression. Everyone moved south to where the jobs were, just like us."

The Russian girl listened wordlessly as she learned the risks their father took to keep a roof over their heads before being forced to move elsewhere. It must have been traumatizing for both Renton and William to not only lose their mother but also their beloved sanctuary. The only one that offered them safety from the cruel world that seemed to conspire against them.

Now she knew why she was so drawn to the then-antisocial Renton during his summer visit at Stalingrad. Now she fully understood what made William so withdrawn, bitter, and cynical.

In truth, she was much like them, cast adrift by the oceans of misfortune, searching for a place to drop anchor. Like them, she lost everything. Her home, her family, her entire world.

The house's roof had obviously fallen into disrepair, evidenced by the small beams of sunlight cast down onto the creaky floors. The last vestiges of a bright, sunny life before depression and war cast the whole world in darkness. Despite the obvious shaky state their home was in, none of them were afraid. Eureka, especially. To be in the home where the love of her life grew up provided a strange, warm comfort.

Eventually, the trio went their separate ways during their tour of the farmhouse. William went to the crop fields, while Eureka went to see the rooms.

Renton decided to explore the kitchen, wanting to savor his fond memories of his favorite part of the house. He remembered when he was only a toddler, he would try to get inside the oven. Luckily, his mother was always there to scold him gently and lead him away from danger. She was always there to guide him away from the world's ravages. Until that fateful day…when the cancer took her…

" _This place brings back memories, doesn't it, Renton?"_

He looked up from the oven, and there she was. The loving mother who gave him life. The angel of golden hair who was just too good for this world to last long. Wearing a simple pink dress with a white apron, she walked around the kitchen slowly…with nostalgia in each silent step. Her light green eyes scanning the ruined place with fondness, as if it was brand new. Not a single trace of sickness in her body. Not an ounce of pain in her face.

" _We would all have breakfast together in the early mornings. You and William would fight over the pancake syrup, leaving a huge mess. Remember?"_

The lad felt tears welling up in his hardened, tired green eyes as he approached the ghostly figure slowly. She flicked aside her braided hair as she smiled kindly at her son.

"Mother…?"

" _You've grown into a strong man, son. I'm so proud of you."_

He bit back a sob as he reached out a hand to hers. It went right through her. He could even see the back of her apron. Of course, he thought. She had been dead for almost ten years. If there was one thing he learned from these past years, it was that death is the end. The end of everything.

" _Renton,"_ she said, resting her transparent hand on his head, _"remember what I taught you. No matter what sadness you feel, no matter how much pain you are in, and no matter where you end up in life: you should always go through life with a smile. Be happy. Happiness brings light to the darkness."_

"How can I believe that, anymore, Mother?" he said to the nothingness. "I've lost so much. You…this house…Jacques, Charles, and Ray…Mikhail…"

" _You still have your fiancée, don't you? You still have William and your friends. But most importantly, even though I'm gone, I'm always watching over you."_

Renton looked up and he could swear he felt the warmth of his mother's lips on her forehead. Was this a last deed before passing on to Paradise, or whatever lay beyond? A tear escaped his eye and he couldn't hold back a mournful moan.

" _Renton, moi syn, tebye nado zhit'; poetomu, zhivi sa ulybkoi. Smile for your fiancée, for your friends, and for your big brother. But most of all, smile for yourself."_ (A/N: Renton, my son, you must live; so, live with a smile.)

And with a blink of his jade eyes, she was gone. And with her passing, he lost the strength to stand and to hold back his tears. Muffling his cries, he eked out the only words he could say.

"Ya obeschayu, Mama. Ya tebya lyublyu…vsegda. Spasibo…spasibo…" (A/N: I promise, Mama. I love you…always. Thank you…thank you…)

He had to keep his word, and keep living. For those he still had left. For his remaining family, and for the new family he would create. Most especially, he had to keep living for Eureka. No more of this violence, he swore to himself. No more fighting. He'd start anew with his fiancée, and live through life with a smile. As his mother would have wanted.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Eureka came upon a small bedroom, or what was left of it. The diminutive size of the metal bed frame in the corner meant a small child used to live in this room. Everything else was bare, down to the walk-in closet to her right. However, what struck her was a leather-bound book sitting on the bed frame, marked with one word in gold-stamped cursive letters:

 _THURSTON FAMILY_

When she opened it, she found a small message on the inside cover. The childish handwriting and tone instantly betrayed who wrote it.

 _To anyone who finds this book:_

 _On this day, June 17_ _th_ _, 1935, I am leaving this house, where I have lived since the day I was born. I am so sad that I have to go. This is not what I wanted at all, but there is no choice. Mother is dead, and we can't pay. Father told me that sometimes, to move forward in life, you have to leave something behind. So, I'm leaving behind this._

 _If you find this album, please keep it here. Don't throw it away. Don't send it to where we live now. Keep it so that when I come back, whenever that is, I can reclaim the part of me I left behind._

 _Thank you._

 _Renton I. Thurston_

Her porcelain fingers traced the awkward letters and smudges, sensing the heartache when he had to leave this place. How difficult that must have been for a boy barely 10 years old. Never once since that day had he given up hope of coming back, and starting over. Indeed, this was all he ever had in his life.

She turned a page and found a collage of old, weathered photographs. Each picture told a story. A story of happier days. A story of a loving family. A story of great joys and heartbreaking losses. One photograph showed Renton as a child, no more than five years old. He was dressed in farmer's clothes, with a loose-fitting long-sleeve white shirt and blue denim overalls. He had a hoe in his hands and he was standing barefoot in fresh fertile soil, recently dug and supposedly ready for planting. Eureka couldn't help but giggle quietly.

"He looked cute even as a child…"

Another page showed a larger photograph depicting a family of four on a beach. The mother and father were doubled over in laughter as two young boys, the youngest six and the eldest 10, tussled with each other in the sand as a wave came rolling in. Her hand gently swept over the glossy finish, and, for a fleeting moment, she could see herself there with him. Not on Stinson Beach but on the shores of Yalta in Ukraine. Not with his brother, but with hers. All of them under the watchful eyes of both their fathers.

Their days together as children were more than just a father showing his son the world before it fell to ash.

On the very next page, a heavily weathered photograph caught her attention, showing a toddler, perhaps no more than a year old. The small tuft of oak brown hair and the sharp green eyes confirmed who she was looking at. Eureka's mouth grew into a wide grin as she couldn't help but softly laugh.

In the end, he was a child at heart. Just a child who wanted to hold on to what childhood he had. Of course, life only moves ever forward. It never concedes to the preferences of a one. The world grew up, and he with it. But he grew up with a sadness that not everything from the past could survive.

Just below the toddler photograph, a youthful fight had come to an end. The older brother, 11, was on the carpet, panting as the younger and feisty one, seven, stood triumphant, his arms outstretched in victory.

"So, Rentoshka," she remarked to herself, "you could put up a good fight even then…"

"Eureka?" a familiar voice called. "Eureka, are you up here?"

"Yes, Renton. I'm in your room."

Renton poked around the door frame and found Eureka, holding the album in her hands. A floorboard creaked as he stepped over the threshold, looking a little embarrassed.

"How…did you figure it was my room?" Eureka smiled slyly, revealing the old album she had in her small hands.

"Because I found this." Renton's face went pale.

"You...didn't read through that, did you?" Eureka's smile turned into an impish, mischievous grin.

"Mozhet byt' da, mozhet byt' nyet." (A/N: Maybe, maybe not.)

He stepped forward, trying to pry the album from her hands, but of course, she wasn't having it. All the while, Renton tried to convince her to spare him some of his dignity, which only encouraged Eureka in her search of more mortifying photos.

"C'mon, Eureka! There's some stuff in there I'd rather have other people see!"

"Why so resistant, darling? I find these pictures rather flattering. Nothing embarrassing at all."

Each time Renton reached for the album, Eureka only walked back, smiling and laughing at his persistence. Renton was always frightfully easy to tease, and Holland was not the only one who partook in such entertaining games. However, at this moment, the game went too far, and turned into something more.

In this lighthearted dance around the bed frame, Renton failed to notice a cracked floorboard. The instant his shoe caught, he was pitched forward and into the bosom of Eureka. Eureka fell with a soft "plop" and a rusted "squeak" of the springs onto the mattress of the bed frame. The laughing subsided, and both realized just what kind of position they were in.

Renton, his coat draping over the two of them like a window curtain, towered over his fiancée, his eyes in line with hers and his hands gripping her wrists, pinning her to the mattress. In the fall, Eureka's light blue skirt had flipped up, revealing more of her smooth, pearly legs than she would like. Her dark brown hair spilled out everywhere on the mattress around her head, reminding him of the sun's warm rays. In that moment, with Renton looking down on her as if from atop a cloud, she seemed like a doll. A delicate, porcelain doll.

For a while, they simply laid there, lost in each other's eyes, and lost for words. Perhaps they simply wanted to enjoy this small moment. Not wanting to waste the little instant of intimacy, Eureka gently tugged at his collar, bringing him back down for a loving kiss. Renton didn't fight it, and loosened his grip as he gently laid his body down closer to her. One hand curled in the small of her back, and another softly caressed her cheek.

"Sorry about just now," Renton whispered, contrite. Eureka shook her head, smiling.

"Don't be. In fact, I can thank that album of yours for this."

Their lips met again, and Eureka reached her arms around his strong back. At the same time, her sculpted leg hooked around his, pulling her soul mate closer to her body. As each felt the other's warmth, and Renton's lips traveled down her neck, the two felt transported into a distant future. There, there was no war. The house was renovated, the floorboards new, and the bed clean and crisp. They were spending the latest night of marital bliss before children would eventually wake them up in the morning. That moment about which Renton spent nights in France dreaming. That moment to which Eureka aspired.

Of course, that moment was short lived as soon William called out to them as he proceeded upstairs.

"Renton! Eureka! Are you two ready to head home?"

Renton growled softly in frustration as he had to roll off her. As much as William approved of the relationship between them, he never let up with his teasing. He was really starting to act like Holland now. Eureka could not help but smile at her beau's irritated expression. As she sat up, however, she offered a small consolation to him.

"There's nothing that says we can't pick this up when we get back home."

Renton smiled lightly, resting his head against hers, not wanting to leave just yet. William came upon them, grinning knowingly.

"Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt, Romeo."

To Eureka's bitten back amusement, Renton immediately jumped up off the bed, his face indistinguishable from a beet, chasing William out of the room and downstairs. As she followed him down the stairs and to the front porch, she didn't have to wonder why he longed to return to this place. After seeing it for herself, all she wanted to do now was help Renton fulfill his dream. Neither of them could ever hope to go back to the way things were. However, they could forge a new existence after the violence and death. What better place to start a new life than on her fiancé's old farm?

In the long drive home, Renton asked William if he could count on him in this dream.

"Listen, I know it's asking a lot, but do you think you can help me try to get the farm back?"

William glanced at the rear-view mirror, and saw the yearning in Renton's eyes. The yearning for better times.

"It's a big job," William reminded him. "It'll take a lot of time, work, and money…"

"Of course it will, but that shouldn't stop us. I'm already working longer hours at the pharmacy, and you with your job in the shipyards. We can set _some_ money aside, can't we?" William nodded.

"I can certainly do that."

Eureka, once again sitting beside Renton in the back seat, could not help but be entrapped with his commitment. Anyone else would have long forgotten about their roots, or decided that it was impossible to go back. Certainly, after seeing how the house was barely standing, abandoned, and alone, it was only natural for someone like William to be hesitant.

But not Renton. He never believed anything was impossible. The fact he never forgot about Eureka proved that, no matter how many years passed, where he lived, who he was, and who he knew in younger days were still salient memories. He never fully let go.

"You know, Renton," she said, fondly, "when I hear you talking about taking back the farm so earnestly, and starting life over, I think to myself, 'that is so great.' I wish I had a dream like that. I'm rather jealous, Rentoshka."

Renton was now awestruck at hearing that from his beloved. Two wide, disbelieving jade eyes looked at her sincere grey ones.

"You're jealous of _me_?" he asked, shocked. "I never once thought I'd hear that from you, of all people, Eurekasha."

"Of course I'm jealous…"

Eureka glanced out the window, watching the rolling meadows and waves of wheat whizz by.

"I don't have a grand dream like that at all. I don't have any special qualities, or unique abilities. I don't even know what I want to be when I'm an adult."

She smiled as she closed her eyes, and saw the image of Renton as a young farmer's son. His feet black with fertile soil, his hands calloused from tilling the fields with a small hoe. As she tucked her hair behind her ears, Eureka made her own promise to Renton. Each word vibrated with resolution.

"But that's alright. Your dream is my dream, too. All I want to do now is help you achieve it. I hope I can always be by your side, working with you."

A moment of silence passed, as his fiancée's support fully registered. It was good to know that she fully supported the venture, and could see a future for herself on that small plot of land. She had been born and raised a city girl, but she had the nature and demeanor of a country maid. His tired hand rested on hers as he inched closer to her.

"It means a lot to hear you say that, Eurekasha. I truly appreciate it." Eureka's head gently rested on his shoulder, contented drowsiness setting in.

"Your welcome, my love. Let's build a future we can be proud of."

William could only smile fondly at his brother and his future sister-in-law, slowly drifting off into the sweets of sleep. In them, he saw the hope and optimism he had nearly lost in ten years spent in poverty and hardship. So much had changed in that time. Renton had proven to him, time and again, that not all things were unobtainable. There was room for love and compassion. The connections to the past didn't all waste away.

With the end of the war in sight, and a postwar rebuilding in store for the world, so too did Renton want to rebuild his life. The young lad had come so far from the moody, lonely boy he was at the start of this war. The least William could do was support him in this passionate dream.

"I'll have to talk to Mr. Jobs about a raise…"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Apologies for the lateness. New Year's was a little hectic for me, since I was celebrating with neighbors and friends. 2016 has been a tumultuous year for me, and I think for all of us. But a lot of good things came out of it for me. I went to Russia, I defended my graduate thesis, and I finally earned my Master's Degree. While technically I don't actually graduate from school until May, I have no classes, so I de facto finished university this year as well. I'm looking forward to 2017, as I know this is the year I finally finish the historical series, land myself a job, and hopefully get these books published. So let's press forward with our heads high.**

 **This chapter along with the next two are concerned primarily with the Battle of Berlin, so expect plenty of combat featuring Petya, Natasha, and the other members of First Company. Also, Colonel Dewey makes his first appearance for this volume (though not the first overall). That's sure to be fun for everyone.**

 **Happy New Year and happy reading!**

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

 **February 1** **st** **, 1945**

 **Bellforest, California**

If there were any illusions of a victory by Christmas, they were shattered with an unexpected German offensive in the Ardennes Forest. They managed to drive a wedge between the Allied armies, but now with the Germans running low on gas and manpower, the attack soon lost steam. Now, with the Western Front completely exhausted of defenses, and it seemed now was the moment to launch an attack over the Rhine and into Germany itself. Similarly, in the east, the Soviet Union had completely cleared Poland of Axis troops and stood on the cusp of taking Berlin. Victory was close, close enough for everyone to taste.

However, for Renton Thurston, today was just a casual day working at the pharmacy. He was sorting out some magazines on the small rack. It was a common job for him; with a new year and new month, the pharmacy had to restock to better their sales. From the corner of his eye, he noticed a newspaper near his feet. He must have dropped it while throwing out the old books.

He picked it up and was instantly captured by a photograph plastered on the front page. Taken from last week near the Ardennes Forest, the photograph featured a small troupe of German prisoners, escorted by an Allied soldier. The faces looked forlornly back at him, as if asking why this war had gone so horribly wrong for their country. For a moment, he thought he heard distant gunfire.

Suddenly, Renton's mind went back to those unpleasant memories of the past. The grueling, destructive battles back in Normandy replayed like an old family film reel. The pharmacy aisles were gone, and instead he was locked in the alleyways of Caen. The ruined cathedral. Daunting, menacing tanks. A bloody corpse.

The oak brown-haired boy shook his head violently, desperately wanting to banish those memories. He just wanted to live his life normally and quietly. Just forget everything and move on.

The eighteen-year-old ripped the old newspaper to shreds and threw it in the trash. There was no point for it to exist, if only to haunt him further. A colleague called to him from the cashier's post.

"Hey, Ren, would you mind covering for me on my lunch break?"

"Oh, of course not, Austin."

The teenager went on over to the cash registry and awaited the customers. The first among them was an adult man. He had simply brought over a loaf of bread and saltine crackers. Renton was just checking in the items through the scanner and was calculating the total price.

"That will be five dollars, sir."

Just when Renton bagged the groceries and handed it over to his customer, it happened again. The employee's green eyes trembled in horror. The customer was gone, and instead there stood the corpse of Charles Fontaine. He was staring right back at Renton with lifeless, dull eyes. His chest was ripped apart, showing ten holes dripping with blood. His rugged face was still the same, showing pain and regret.

"C-Charles…?"  
 _"You let me die…"_

The oak brown-haired boy backed away slowly as a bloody hand reached out to him.

" _You let Ray die!"_

Instinctively, a horrified Renton slapped the corpse's hand away as he collapsed on the floor, holding his head between his hands. Many pharmacy shoppers looked at the lad with concern and confusion in their eyes. Even a few coworkers were not sure what to say or do to calm Renton down. Their boss, like a father to his own children, approached the scared boy and helped him stand on his feet.

"Hey, Thurston, snap out of it. Can you hear me, kid?"

He looked up at his middle-aged boss but did not answer immediately. He wasn't sure if it was out of fear or something else. The pharmacy manager patted Renton's shoulder, and walked him to the employees' quarters, where his normal clothes and coat were kept.

"I think you should take the rest of the day off. You're not looking so well."

"I'm fine, Mr. Martin," Renton said, unconvincingly.

"You are far from fine, kid! You can't possibly hope to continue working while hallucinating, can you?"

Renton looked down in shame, realizing his superior had a point.

"I guess not. Sorry..."

Mr. Martin gave his employee a wry smile.

"No need to apologize. Just focus on getting some rest. Come back to the office when you are ready."

Taking his boss' suggestion to heart, Renton left the pharmacy early. He found an empty playground some way from his high school, and sat in one of the swings. The war would soon be over; Germany would be defeated, and everyone would go home. Father would come back. Renton would go back to his farm. He'd start life anew. So why now?

Why, after so many months, did he felt a pang of guilt for surviving while his friends did not?

Renton was just starting to feel better, if only just a little. He pondered on what to do, as he couldn't go home looking this way. His face was drenched in sweat, and he still felt ill in the stomach. Maybe he could stop by the clinic and order something to soothe him somehow.

With that in mind, he stood up from the swing. Just then, two familiar figures appeared before Renton. The first one was a woman with long black hair, light green eyes, and a tarnished dark maroon coat with a matching skirt. The other was a man slightly older, with short black hair and brown eyes. He had on a bloodied dark blue coat, matching slacks and black boots. It didn't take long for Renton to recognize who these ghosts were.

"No. Dear God, no…!"

The ghost of Ray spoke first, smiling.

" _We know that you are hurting, Renton. We know you are still suffering. But, it's alright."_

"Why?" Renton asked, lips trembling with fear. He felt his cheeks being gently caressed by Ray.  
 _"Because you are with us, now,"_ Jacques's ghost told him, with a twisted smile. _"With family. Join us, Renton."_

Renton's blood turned cold. His sweat was flowing through his forehead and he was losing his vision. Everything around him disappeared. He was alone in the darkness.

"No, get away from me! Get away!"

The ghost of Charles appeared once more, joining with his dead lover and friend as they circled around the despairing boy. Renton fell to his knees, holding his ears to try and block out the accusations.

" _Why didn't you save us, Thurston? Why did you let us die?!"_

"I didn't want you to die! I swear!" Renton shouted, his voice laced with grief and anguish. "Please forgive me. I can't join you! I still have a life to live for myself! I still have to live for Eureka!"

"Liar."

Renton swung his head and saw a shadow behind him. Looking a little more closely, the shadow appeared similar to him. But there was something different. Darker. Sinister.

"You wanted to die along with them, didn't you? Admit it. You wish it had been you and not them."

"No!"

"You wanted a sweet escape from what you've seen and lost. But, every single time, you are pulled back to the darkness. No matter how far you run, your past catches up to you. Fighting and killing is what kept you alive thus far. Just give in. _I_ know you want to."

"Shut up!" Renton screamed in anger and guilt. "You don't know anything about me!"

"On the contrary, I _am_ you."

A thin, sick smirk grew across the shadow's face, as if drawn in a colored marker.

"What?" Renton blurted out in confusion.

The shadow walked toward the light and finally revealed himself. He was an exact copy of Renton, but there was a frightening difference. It was Renton, as he was in Normandy. He had a crazed look in his bloodshot eyes and bore the familiar signs and stench of battle. Blood on his face, his hands, his coat, and the bayonet of his rifle.

"This war is not over, yet, Renton Ivanovich Thurston. The Axis Powers are still fighting. Germany and Japan have not yet given in. So, my work is not yet done! I'll do whatever it takes to defeat them! Those fascists and imperialists are nothing but lambs to the slaughter! They will suffer and rot!"

Renton shut his eyes tight and almost tore at his hair, trying to block out his own dark thoughts. Trying to stop the violent images of his past battles from driving him insane. Trying to suppress his near psychotic rampage in the rainy streets of Caen. Desperate to wipe away his outburst of pain in the snowy streets of Stalingrad.

"I am the American Russian. I am the Yankee who fought in Stalingrad."

"Stop this! I'm not like that!"

The other Renton laughed maniacally as he outstretched his hands, raising his rifle as if in triumph.

"I am a hero of the people! A slayer of the fascist beast!"

"No, I'm not!"

"I AM A HERO!"  
"NO! I'M NOT!"

"Renton? Renton?! Renton!"

At the blink of an eye, everything was back to normal. He was back in the playground, on his knees in the sand. Turning slowly, he noticed Jane, approaching him with worried blue eyes. She looked like she had seen a ghost. If only she knew what he had seen…

"Oh, thank God. I didn't think I'd get you back. Are you alright?"

Unable to restrain himself, Renton felt bile in his throat and emptied it out of his system. He instantly collapsed in the sand afterwards, unconscious. Anyone else would have run for the nearest bystander, thinking a hospital was the best place for him. But she knew better. She knew what he needed. Something she tried to provide for him, but in the end could not.

Not minding the smell of bile, she lifted him up and set his body on her back, carrying him into the residential section. Towards his home, where his beloved resided.

He breathed quietly, tickling the back of her neck. Jane only smiled, wistfully.

"You poor, poor thing. What on earth did you see in France?"

»»»»»

Renton eyes sprung open and stared at a ceiling fan, humming softly. He felt a cold, wet cloth was on top of his forehead. Sitting next to him was none other than his fiancée, resting her porcelain hand on his cheek.

"Eureka…?"

The Russian girl simply smiled gently at her beau and kept the cloth on his head.

"Shhh, it's alright, now. I'm here."

The oak brown-haired boy sighed with relief, realizing that he was now safe at home and in safe hands. He could not even begin to imagine where he thought he'd end up when he came to.

"How did I even get here?"

"Jane found you alone in the park," Eureka explained. "She said you were talking to yourself and thrashing about. She helped bring you back to the house."  
"I have to thank her for that, then…"

Eureka drew closer to him, her grey eyes now in line with his green ones. Her eyebrows furrowed in concern and worry.

"Renton, did you have another episode?"

He averted his gaze, and immediately betrayed his shame.

"I saw Charles again. Along with Ray and Jacques. They were saying I let them die. But that's not what sent me over the edge."

Renton closed his eyes, and for a split-second he saw his darker self again. He smelled again the heavily sweet smell of blood. He heard his menacing laugh.

"I saw myself…I think. I…he…was covered in blood, holding a rifle. He was going on and on about how the war's not over, my work's not done, and how I still have... enemies to kill…"

A heavy sigh accompanied his hands covering his face in shame. Why was it he saw himself now, when he swore that part of his life was over? He had to move on, and prepare for life after the war. So, why couldn't he leave the past behind?

He wiped his face, and gazed up at Eureka. At least he could count on her anchoring him when he strayed too far. Just when it seemed there was no hope for him and he was about to fall, she lifted him up. Renton reached a hand up to her and asked, earnestly,

"Eurekasha, please tell me. Have I led a good life?"

Eureka took his hand, but confusion was written plainly on her face.

"Shto shto?"

"Skazhi mnye, shto ya khoroshiy chelovyek." (A/N: Tell me I'm a good man.)

The concerned look turned into a hopeful, caring smile as she caressed his rough hand. With a nod, she knelt down next to him and kissed him gently on the cheek.

"Of course you are, Rentoshka. I wouldn't have fallen in love with you if you weren't such a kind man."

The couple rested their heads against each other, and their breathing synchronized. He felt drowsy, but before drifting off to dream, Renton silently thanked God he had such a caring and loving companion as Eureka.

»»»»»

 **April 15** **th** **, 1945**

 **62 miles from Berlin, Germany**

Germany was as good as finished. The British and Americans had occupied the Ruhr Valley in the west, and the Soviets stood poised to take Berlin in the east. But even as the handwriting on the wall spelled defeat, the Wehrmacht doggedly fought on, as if there was nothing left to live for. Even when they should have long given up and gone home, they were committed to defending what was left of their sacred Fatherland. All soldiers in the Red Army were undaunted, determined to finish this long, bloody war.

Along the Oder River walked a Soviet officer, peering off to the distance. In particular, a long rise of ground over 150 feet high commanded his attention as he peered through his binoculars. The Seelow Heights, as they were called, were all that stood between the Red Army and Berlin, and with it, the end of this war. The Wehrmacht knew this as well and posted as many men as it could spare to defend the heights and blunt the Soviet advance.

The officer's blue eyes squinted as he made out gun emplacements and dug-in tanks along the ridge, together with zigzagging trenches looking down on the valley below. He could not help but wonder just how those Germans hoped to survive the onslaught of the advancing Soviets. The numerical disparity was staggering: three million men and tens of thousands of tanks and vehicles were committed to the final push on Berlin, against perhaps a few hundred thousand defending those lonely heights.

It was a battle hardly worth fighting at all; the outcome seemed a foregone conclusion.

As the officer tucked away his binoculars and sighed heavily, a younger, slightly petulant voice called from behind.

"Comrade Colonel?"

The Colonel looked over his shoulder and saw a young senior lieutenant with brown hair and eyes. A peaked cap bearing the Red Army cockades sat nestled atop his head while a dark brown overcoat draped over his small body like a veil. His boots were muddy; evidence he had walked a long way to get to him.

"Da, Lieutenant Chertov? Shto tiy khochesh'?"

"The Marshal has requested a meeting. He says it's urgent."

"Why didn't you come sooner? Let's hurry, then."

The two officers trudged through the muddy fields back to their lines and headed towards a small dugout in the earth, covered by a camouflaged mesh. Guards greeted them with the routine "present arms," to which a salute was returned.

Ducking their heads under the low ceiling, the two officers saw a large table with a scaled map of the area splayed out. A single man with a bald head and steely eyes looked down, scanning every tree and trench line. The shoulder boards on his coat indicated he was a field marshal. Both officers showed deference, clicked their heels and saluted.

"Comrade Marshal Zhukov," the Colonel greeted. "You asked to see us, sir?" (A/N: Georgi Zhukov (1896-1974): One of the more prominent career officers in the Red Army and the most decorated general officer in the Soviet Union and Russia. Zhukov directed several critical campaigns including the Battles of Moscow, Leningrad, and Stalingrad, and led the final Soviet assault on Berlin.)

"Yes," he said in a baritone voice, "but I was expecting more than just you two, comrades. Did either of you happen to see General Chuikov anywhere?"

"Sorry I'm late, comrade," a gravelly voice uttered behind the Colonel. "I was just seeing to distributing some last medals."

Vasily Chuikov, known throughout the army as the general that valiantly defended Stalingrad, came down the steps with a small, tired smile. His craggy face bore many a battle scar, but even though he acted like one of his own men, he commanded enough presence for Chertov and the colonel to face him. Chuikov sighed at the uptight formalities.

"No need for that, lads. You see me often enough that we've moved past that."

Several other generals followed in past Chuikov and gathered around the table. Chertov was almost pushed out of the dugout, but he managed to secure a position for himself off to the side. He didn't like bumping shoulders with the upper brass. Hell, he didn't even like when Captain Pavlenko called him in for weekly briefings. The colonel in the meantime stood beside Chuikov, adjusting his rain cape.

With a short cough, any chattered soon was silenced, and Zhukov began the meeting.

"Comrades," he said, "we are now 100 kilometers away from Berlin. There is only one obstacle remaining in our path: Seelow Heights. If we break through there, the road to the lair of the fascist beast will be open. It is vitally important we move as quickly as possible. Comrade Stalin has informed me that the Western Allies are making preparations to move from the Ruhr Valley and they may cross the Elbe river. Undoubtedly, they intend to capture Berlin."

There was a slight murmur of concern among the general staff. It had always been assumed that they, not the Americans or British, would take Berlin for themselves. The city lay in the heart of their zone of occupation once the war was over. Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill had all agreed on who would get what part of Germany. To openly break the pact? It was almost surreal to contemplate.

"I ask you, comrades: who is going to take Berlin? Us, or the Allies?"

A moment of silence passed, but the Colonel stepped forward, and clicked his heels to attention.

"We are, sir. Berlin is rightfully ours. The Soviet Union has shed far too much blood to share the capital with the rest now."

Zhukov smiled lightly and nodded.

"Spasibo, Polkovnik. So you see, comrades, our Great Leader is counting on us to win the prize that is rightfully ours. Time is of the essence. So, 24 hours from now, we will begin the operation to seize Seelow Heights and clear the way to Berlin. General Chuikov?" (A/N: Thank you, Colonel.)

Chuikov stepped up to the map, and joined the Colonel.

"Sir?"

"Your Eighth Guards Army will be tasked with clearing the heights themselves. You, together with General Berzarin's Fifth Shock Army will advance along the main highway…"

His finger traced the famed German _autobahn_ that led directly into the city, and right into the teeth of the enemy defenses.

"…and smash the main lines of defense at the Heights. The Third Shock and 47th Armies will follow you."

"Permission to speak freely, comrade Marshal?" Chuikov asked.

"General."

"How strong are the defenses atop the heights? What can my men hope to expect?"

"The outer defenses should be limited to mainly infantry and light anti-tank forces, but the heights themselves…they may have heavy guns and tanks dug in."

Chuikov blinked and looked disconcertingly at the aforementioned heights on the map.

"That may be a tough nut to crack, comrade Marshal."

"All of our artillery and aircraft will be standing by to assist you, General Chuikov. We will start the operation with a large, extended bombardment. That should clear the outer trenches and allow you to advance unhindered. I doubt any fascist would survive such a long barrage."

"…as you say, sir."

The Marshal went on, explaining every army's part to play. In the meantime, the Colonel thought more about something that lay in Berlin itself. Something, or rather, someone he needed for the plan he had been dreaming all this time. The same plan that saw the death of the American Russian. Chertov had failed once to eliminate him, but even so, he still had other means.

When Berlin was theirs, there would be nothing to stop him.

The Colonel grinned inwardly, and glanced at Chertov, who shifted between his two feet. Chertov, the firebrand. Even with his arrogance, quick temper, and ruthlessness, Chertov still had his part to play in the grand plan. Everyone would have their part to play. Even the Germans themselves.

Outside the dugout and further behind the frontlines, Petya and Ken-Goh conversed with each other, in a strange feeling this may be the last moment of peace before prolonged battle. Petya held in his grimy hand a letter, written from Renton. Another note of correspondence from their American friend.

It was almost unreal to think that the last time they saw their dear friend was in combat on the streets of their home city, Stalingrad. Two and a half years had passed since that great victory. Neither of them had seen home or family in that same amount of time. With Berlin in their sights, and victory a certainty, everyone had a penchant for going home and rebuilding what they had lost. Such was the tone of Renton's letter.

 _5 April 1945_

 _Dear Petya,_

 _How fares your platoon? We are all waiting now for the Soviet armies to make the final strike on Berlin. Everyone seems to think the war is already over. Some of us, Holland, Eureka and myself especially, realize that war never ends quietly._

 _I can say with certainty, after seeing what you experienced in Stalingrad and being in Normandy for three months, that there has never been such a war as this. Not even the Great War my father fought in compares to the sheer destruction and misery caused by this one._

 _Right now, I'm working longer hours at my pharmacy to gather up some extra money. I'm planning to go back to my old family farm after finishing school. The money will go to renovation, tilling the fields, and if things work out, finally marrying Eureka. Everything will go back to the way things used to be. At least, I hope so._

 _My friend, when this war eventually ends, will you stay in contact with me? I want to remember the good times I shared with you, Natasha, Anatole, and the others. I will send my new address to you once I am settled into the house. Maybe, when things are calmer…you can come see us? I'd love for you to visit the house I grew up in._

 _Petya, is there a dream you have for after this war? I know you once spoke of settling down with Natasha, but was there anything else? I'd like very much to know._

 _All the best to you and the soldiers of First Company! May you survive this war's last trial._

 _I remain your own,_

 _Renton_

 _P.S. Next time you see Vladimir, tell him Eureka is always thinking of him. She hopes we can all meet again soon._

Ken-Goh, the older officer, stroked his mustache thoughtfully and smiled as Petya read the letter aloud. Since they parted ways in Stalingrad, Ken-Goh's only means of checking in on his friend and former commanding officer was through his letters to Petya. He had heard and learned everything of Renton's exploits, struggles, and accomplishments.

"Seems like he is finally moving on in life," Ken-Goh thought aloud.

"Many days, I can't help but envy him," Petya agreed. "I wonder if our transition will be any easier."

"It never is easy, Petya, old friend. All we can do is just try, day by day."

Petya nodded, and wondered just how Renton, or indeed any of them, could so easily move on after so many years at war. When one fights long enough, it is easy to become accustomed to a life of conflict. The wail of incoming rockets, the scream of a dive-bomber, or the squeals of tank tracks become strangely familiar after a time.

"So," Ken-Goh started again, smiling, "Renton is finally tying the knot? Never thought that kid would ever get this far. Remember how Holland always tried to push them together?" Petya laughed in fondness.

"Da, da. He always liked poking fun at Rentoshka for that. I did my share of that, too."

"To get Natasha off his back?"

Petya blushed slightly from embarrassment. There was some self-interest in his endeavors, as he had eyes for Natasha for many years. In the end, Renton's departure and his stronger interest in Eureka did make Natasha look elsewhere. At the same time, things did work out for the both of them.

It was at the thought of a married postwar life that Petya offered a bold suggestion.

"Say, when this war is over, what do you say to all of us visiting Rentoshka?"

Ken-Goh stroked his mustache in thought and adjusted his fur hat. Before this war none of them had ever ventured beyond their own country. This was the first time they had seen the world. Perhaps things would change for all of them. German's defeat would not have been possible without the Americans' help, after all. Ken-Goh smiled and nodded.

"We can finally see him walk down the aisle with Eureka, as they say, eh?"

The two old friends laughed jovially at the thought.

"Next time you write Renton, ask him about it. See what he says."

"I'll do that."

At that moment, a major wrapped in a dark brown overcoat joined them. When Petya and Ken-Goh snapped to attention, he shifted his feet in slight embarrassment.

"Come now, moi druz'ya. There's no need for that when it is just us." (A/N: My friends)

"Of course, Vladimir," Petya said, contrite. "By the way, Renton wrote us again. He wanted me to say your sister is thinking of you."

Vladimir smiled in fond remembrance. In truth, he was unsure his sister would survive the hollow shell Stalingrad had become. Renton's letters gave him great comfort.

"Volodya," Ken-Goh cut in, "we were thinking that after this war is over, we could visit Renton and Eureka. Is that possible?"

Vladimir's eyes lit up at the prospect of seeing his best friend and little sister again.

"I can put it to my father. With his help, he can get us all permits to travel abroad. I'm sure he'd like to see them again too. I know I would."

"Major Novikov!"

A demanding voice called from the dugout, where the General Staff were finally dispersing after the meeting. The sight of his superior officer made Vladimir's blood run cold. With a single expectant glare from his icy blue eyes and a swish of his rain cape, Vladimir went running through the mud.

He stopped short of slipping in the mud before standing face to face with the Colonel.

"Sorry, Dewey, I—"

"Who?" the Colonel, Dewey, asked with slight hostility.

"…Comrade Colonel, you called me?"

"Yes, Major Novikov. I just came back from a meeting with Marshal Zhukov. The time for our attack has come."

A light ring of sweat wrapped Vladimir's collar as he gulped. This was one thing for which he could have waited a little longer. He would have liked to write Renton a letter, maybe ask how Eureka was.

"…today, sir?"

"At 0300 hours, the artillery bombardment of Seelow will start. When dawn comes, the whole 1st Belorussian Front will cross the Oder and attack the heights. Our route of attack will be along the _autobahn_."

"I see, sir."

"You should ready your battalion, Major. Our brigade will be at the front of the advance."

Vladimir averted his eyes, hinting at his lack of commitment. He would have liked a little more warning before this news was sprung on him.

"I'll brief the company officers at once, sir. The attack begins at dawn, you said?"

"Yes."

A brief pause made Dewey realize that Vladimir was feeling uneasy.

"Forgive me, but is your mind on something else, Major?"

"As a matter of fact, comrade Colonel, yes. Renton wrote the men of First Company today. He and Eureka were asking about me."

Dewey's lips pursed, and he blinked. Suddenly Vladimir's greyish blue eyes were looking straight into Dewey's icy stare. He almost fell back in the mud in surprise.

"I've always said you should be careful about being too chummy with the American, Major."

"But he's our friend! He's been our friend for almost seven years! And now, he may soon be our brother-in-law."

Dewey's eyes widened in surprise.

"…what did you say?"

"I said Renton and Eureka are engaged; they have been since August. When the war ends, they'll marry and—"

"Silence!"

Dewey spun away and paced back and forth, head pensively down in thought.

"Do you know what being related to an American may mean for the family? Are you so delusional to think this would go over well with the Party or our Great Leader? We would all be branded as potential enemies of the state!"

"Brother, you can't—"

"That's comrade Colonel to you!"

"…Comrade Colonel, perhaps before we might have, but we fought the Nazis together. Everything has changed. This war has bridged the gap between our two nations, and…"

Vladimir never finished his predictions, as he was cut off by Dewey's condescending laughter.

"If you really believe that, Vladimir Petrovich, then you are every bit the fool you were when that boy came into our city that summer. It will take far more than fighting a common enemy to set aside our differences! We may have defeated one enemy, but do not be so stupid as to think we and the Yanks are now friends. They have and always will be our true enemy."

The young major's eyebrows sank, feeling Dewey was being biased. Was he so stuck in the past that he thought nothing would bring together their countries? Had he no emotions other than hatred and anger?

"Dewey," he said, trying and failing to contain his bitterness, "I strongly disagree. Times have changed. You may not think Renton is family, but to me, Eureka, and Holland, he is and always will be. To not even recognize him, to cast him in with the enemy, is prejudice. This is something I would expect to hear from Chertov, but not you. I would think you are better than this…sir."

Dewey looked over his shoulder with a patronizing glare.

"See to your battalion, Major. When this war is over, I will show you just how our countries will never come to terms. Dismissed."

Vladimir backed away, and left to rejoin his friends. At the same time, however, he couldn't help but feel dread after this meeting. Dewey had never let go of his hatred of the foreign since Renton came and went. What was stopping him from seeing Renton again, and interacting with him like a normal family member? It was not such an outrageous wish. And after all, with the passing of every war, there is a time of rebuilding and remaking the world.

At least, that is what he thought.

»»»»»

 **April 16** **th** **, 1945**

The screech of Katyusha rockets and boom of artillery had almost become normal to Dmitri after several hours straight. When the order to advance was given, the deadly silence left many a soldier unnerved. Still, they were all confident of a breakthrough. The Germans were on the ropes, and victory was not far off. What resistance could the broken fascist Reich possibly have to offer?

As the Lieutenant Colonel said, their brigade was at the head of the advance. Vladimir's battalion led the way, with First Company front and center. The men and women had been hardened after four years of war, bonded to each other like family, and were all the more determined to see this through to the end. All would make it back home alive; that was the promise Vladimir made to his men.

Dmitri kept a steady pace, wanting to keep up with his good friend, Anatole. When they first met in Kursk, Anatole had liked to make fun of the then-green recruit. War had changed him now. Like Anatole and the others in First Company, he was a decorated veteran. But, just like all of them, he was growing tired of war, and hoped that this battle would be their last.

"Say, Anatole?"

Anatole adjusted his grip on his DP28 light machine gun and cast his strangely red eyes on his friend of two years.

"Da, Dima?"

"What do you think will happen to all of us when Germany surrenders?" Anatole rubbed his stubbly chin in thought.

"I can't speak for everyone, but I definitely know what will happen to me. I head back home to Stalingrad, and live large!"

"That's sounds just like you."

Anatole laughed and slapped Dmitri on the back before cocking his weapon.

"So, how about you, my friend?"

"Me? Well…there is a little sister waiting for me in my village." Anatole smirked.

"That's it? What about a girlfriend?"

Dmitri blushed lightly, but didn't respond.

"In that case, you'll be the most popular guy in your village when this war is over!"

"…sure…"

The sound of squealing tank treads broke the stillness of the air as their armored support advanced behind them. It was a comforting thought that, even if the Germans had an unexpected surprise, the full might of the Soviet war machine was behind them.

"Say, did you hear the news from our Yankee friend? He's going to be a husband when the war's over."

"I wish we could have seen him again…there were so many things I wanted to ask."

"Well, Dima, we may yet get our chance." Dmitri's eyes lit up in surprise.

"What do you mean?"

"Our good Major hopes to grant permits for those wanting to travel abroad. With any luck we can go to America and see them walk off lovingly into the sunset…"

Anatole looked up at the sky, a nostalgic glimmer in his eyes.

"It would be nice to see Eureka and Vasya one last time. Never really got a chance to say goodbye to them…"

"Are you getting misty-eyed on me, Tolya?" Dmitri joked. "I never thought you were capable of that." Anatole laughed.

"There's more to me than just my jokes and a DP machine gun, Dima! Listen, what's say you come to Stalingrad with us when this is over? I'll show you where Renton played and fought with us, huh?"

Dmitri was about to say yes when the sound of a loud, fully-revved buzz saw broke the silence. Machine gun bullets ripped through the mist and struck down comrades on his right and left. Anatole grabbed Dmitri and both hit the ground, trying to find the origin of the tracer bullets. The Battle of Seelow Heights had begun.

All of First Company could do little except crawl forward, following the route of tracers. Petya, at the head of the advance, strained to find any landmark. His binoculars found the vague silhouette of a small wooden house. A series of rapid yellow blasts flashed from a broken window.

"MG emplacement ahead! Blow them apart!"

Natasha, lying prone a few feet behind Petya, looked through her scope trying to find the machine gunner. She bit her lip, feeling the pressure building with each 'zip' from a bullet and each 'thud' of a dead comrade's body. The tracers were clear, but even with the barely visible outline of a window, she could not see the gunner. The window was far too dark.

"Shit..."

She thought for sure they would be pinned down, and the advance would be stopped cold. But then came the loud pings of ricocheting bullets off heavy armor. She looked behind her, and saw a lumbering IS-2 tank roll up behind the pinned company. She smiled in hope, reckoning what would come next.

" _Find that MG, crew! Our comrades can't move forward."_

" _MG42 in that shack. 250 meters, 11 o'clock."_

" _Roger! Fire HE!"_

The tank's main gun opened fire with a roar, and almost shook the ground beneath all in First Company. To Natasha, it felt akin to an earthquake. She was left with a loud ringing in her ears, but she managed to see the tank's deadly work. It did more than just kill the gunners; when the smoke cleared, a large hole was left in the house's walls. Petya blew his whistle, and waved his hand.

"They're dead. Move! MOVE!"

As the rest of the company moved on through the mist, Petya helped up Natasha. His face was smudged with mud, but still sported a strong, determined smile.

"You okay, Natasha? Are you hit?" Natasha laughed.

"Of course I'm fine, darling. I didn't survive for four years just to be killed before even entering Berlin!" Petya nodded, and quickly kissed her.

"That's the spirit, moya lyubova! Now, let's finally finish this!"

The entire brigade surged forward, with the tanks close behind them. Petya looked up to see a squadron of large, green airplanes flying overhead. IL-2 dive-bombers, bearing the red star of their nation on the wings. What a magnificent sight, the full might of the Soviet Union finally coming down to crush the fascist Reich.

As the mist slowly cleared and the mud hardened, the entire company came upon a wheat field, into which a group of Germans were retreating. Chertov's platoon, which had advanced together with Petya through the mist, was wreaking all manner of havoc on their demoralized foes. Chertov seemed almost ecstatic with glee as he sprayed several bullets from his PPSh-41 into a hesitating German soldier.

"How does it feel to watch your land burn, fascist?!"

Karataev, one of Chertov's veteran soldiers, lit a Molotov cocktail and tossed it into the wheat field. The waves of grain were set ablaze, and agonizing screams were heard inside. Chertov smiled, and followed in kind.

"Burn the wheat fields, comrades! There will be no escape for the bastards!"

Alekseev, the meeker and weaker of his veterans, was shocked to hear the order. He could barely hold the lighter steady, the brutality of the order was too much to take in. Is this how a victor treats the defeated? Karataev looked to his old friend with a knowing stare. It was not the first time both he and Alekseev questioned orders. They followed Chertov not out of loyalty, but as a formality.

"Do it, Alekseev. You don't want to get a verbal lashing later, do you?"

With the greatest reluctance, Alekseev tossed the firebomb. A shattering of glass and an eruption produced more flames. Black smoke choked their lungs as the entire company swooped to the right of the fields, following their tanks and encountering more retreating Germans. The whole vignette seemed out of an apocalyptic vision. The last thing every dying enemy saw was their own land burning to ash.

Out of a small farmhouse behind the wheat field came more enemies fleeing. To the men and women of the Red Army, they were lambs for the slaughter. One by one, they were picked off and some, emerging from the blazing inferno, looked to be emerging from Hell itself.

Natasha caught one burning German in her sights. The charred flesh and seared uniforms filled her nose with a foul stench, too overpowering for her to fire. All she could do was watch as he slowly fell to the ground, crying and pleading for a merciful death. Disgusted, she turned to spot one officer wearing the garb of the SS. He tried to rally his men to fight back, but any such calls were soon cut short.

With a quick pull of the trigger, she scored a hit to his chest cavity, killing him instantly. His death soon singled her out for a reprisal, as other soldiers rallied to the dead officer's body. One German, holding a Sturmgewehr-44, fired several shots in her direction. Instinctively she fell to the ground and lined up her sights again, ready to pick him off like the rest. However, Anatole and Dmitri came up to support and both shot at the German, killing him. Anatole helped her up, quipping,

"I thought snipers weren't supposed to be on the frontlines!"

Without skipping a beat, Natasha pushed on ahead and looked on as Chertov mowed down five Germans with his submachine gun. He laughed triumphantly as he urged his soldiers forward. As he said to Petya,

"How long did it take for us to get here, Sokolov?"

"Four years, give or take," he said unaffectedly, looking on at their fleeing foes.

"Four long years of suffering and destruction! Four years of them ravaging our land, tormenting our people, spilling our blood. Now, it is _their_ land! _Their_ people! _Their_ blood! They will regret ever warring with us when this is over."

"…as you say, Chertov."

Petya joined Ken-Goh as he coordinated the efforts of First Company. The battle was fast going their way, and the momentum had to be maintained. As the tanks made their way to a small stream, Ken-Goh addressed everyone under his command.

"Comrades, ahead of us lie the first defenses of Seelow Heights. We can't simply brute force this, so we must attack smartly. One platoon will make a direct attack through the forest into the trenches, while another will flank right through the field and down the hill. Petya, you are on point. Vsyo ponyatna?" (A/N: Everything understood?)

Petya nodded and shouldered his weapon.

"Da. Let's get this over with, already!"

There were no objections among the company, and the platoon commanders went their separate ways. Ken-Goh joined Petya as he led his platoon up the hill to flank the trench lines. Chertov, in the meantime, took his men through the woods, right into the teeth of the enemy.

In the forest, Chertov hoped to make a quick dash through the trenches in an effort to beat Petya to the top of the hill. They came in like horses at a racetrack, their boots clopping on the trench floorboards like hooves. However, any hopes of a quick run were soon dashed when three Germans came down and made contact with Chertov, Alekseev, and Karataev.

The young officer snorted in vexation, and shouldered his weapon. Rather than reach for a pistol, what he did surprised his two subordinates. Tucked underneath his overcoat and strapped to his side, Chertov produced a pristine saber, the kind used by officers in armies of old. Such a weapon was normally used in ceremonies, but Chertov made it a point to bring it with him everywhere.

As one of the Germans shot and killed a Red Army soldier behind Chertov, he charged at full speed hoping to slice off his hand. The German blocked him with the stock of his Kar98k, and for a moment the two men stared each other down. Locked in a battle of endurance and intimidation.

Chertov managed to dig in and smashed his head into the German's, disorienting him for a moment as he staggered back. He soon recovered and made a lunge at Chertov, hoping to stab him with his bayonet. Chertov sidestepped him and kicked his opponent in the knee from behind. That succeeded in bringing him down on one knee. What Chertov did next made even Karataev, who had grown used to his bouts of rage, cringe in fear.

His free hand held the German by the neck while the other, still grasping his saber, made a clean, horizontal swish across his throat. Blood coated the blade, and German gurgled out his last breaths.

That was all Karataev could see, as the second German tried to pump several rounds into him from a Sturmgewehr-44. Karataev managed to dodge and take cover behind an overturned box of munitions before returning fire. His SVT-40 only had three rounds to spare before the magazine was spent. He cursed to himself while fumbling for a new one. The moment of hesitation soon passed the initiative to the German who stormed down the trench, yelling like a madman. Even if the Red Army would take Seelow Heights, they would pay for every step.

Karataev swung his bayonet at his opponent's neck, but missed him by a mile. He instead received a hard kick to his left ribs and a punch to the stomach. While trying to gather himself, the German made an attempt to corner him against a tree. However, the soldier crouched down and slid his feet around, connecting it with the German's leg. As he landed on his back with a pained groan, the corporal swung the butt of his rifle at the head of his opponent. Twice.

Alekseev, even after seeing combat in places like Stalingrad and Kursk, could be susceptible to anxiety. Every time he fired off a shot from his Mosin-Nagant, it missed. For a while, it was a simple shooting match between him and a German who slowly marched down the trenches, firing his MP40 in bursts. With one round left, Alekseev chose to go for broke, and make a dash. He normally avoided hand-to-hand combat, but it seemed nothing was helping him today.

He leaped over an overturned table and charged, hoping to rush his enemy and fight him to the ground. Alekseev, surprisingly, closed the distance and elbowed the German in the stomach. However, the German was quick to adapt. When the young Russian tried to land the killing shot, he dodged, and produced a combat knife. He haphazardly tried to back away, kicking at the enemy soldier's shins as he went. It wasn't enough.

As Alekseev threw out his leg for another kick, the German grabbed him by the boot and sliced at his kneecap. Crying in pain, the Russian felt bleeding and saw his knee turn red. Without missing a beat, the German landed a hard punch to Alekseev's jaw, and forced him onto the ground. It seemed like it was all over as the knife's blade aimed at his heart. The German raised his arm, but then…

BANG!

Something zipped through his shoulder and forced him to drop the knife. As the German clutched at his wound, Chertov came up from behind. He spun his enemy around, and thrust his saber through the heart, killing him instantly.

As Karataev helped his friend onto his feet, Alekseev could stare in amazement at his superior, who saved him from certain death.

"T-t-thank you, c-comrade Lieutenant," he said, shakily.

"What would you do without me?" Chertov asked condescendingly, grinning from ear to ear.

Karataev wished he could do something to wipe that sickening smile off his face. Of course, as always, he had to refrain himself in doing so. This war wouldn't last much longer. This brat would soon be out of their hair.

Meanwhile, Petya's platoon covered good ground across the fields and pushed up the hill to outflank their enemies. Resistance before the hill was considerably lighter, as the main assault through the forest had drawn most of the forces away. As they approached the trenches, however, they soon came under fire from retreating enemy forces along the _autobahn._ Undoubtedly, they knew what was coming, and sought the safety of tougher defenses. Ken-Goh directed the platoon's fire, and made sure no one would survive.

"They're falling back towards the heights! Don't let them escape!"

Natasha was quick to hit the ground and aim upwards. One German, wearing the insignia of the SS on his lapels, managed to down three of her comrades as they came up behind her with an MP40. As he reached for a new magazine, Natasha lined the sights, and found her mark.

With a single pull of the trigger, her bullet cracked the German's helmet. As blood streamed down his face, he fell onto his knees, then to his back. Her kill was followed by Petya, whose PPSh-41 made an easy victim of a charging soldier rushing through the trenches. A soldier who was barely a child, no older than 16. How desperate was Germany that they would turn to children to supplement the lines?

They pressed further up to the summit of the hill. Natasha looked up, and watched as an IL-2 swooped down from overhead, and dropped a load of cluster bombs on a convoy of supply trucks running up the _autobahn_. The Sturmoviks were deadly effective against tanks, and proved to be doubly so against trucks. Every truck exploded in fiery balls in quick succession. To Natasha, the sky itself was ablaze. She had no time to savor the experience as Petya urged her forward.

Ken-Goh was the first to reach the summit, and looked down on the trench lines below. Chertov's platoon was making good progress, but the raking fire of an MG42 slowed their advance. The rear trench lines were heavily defended. If the Reich was doomed, it would go down fighting. Of that, there was certainly no doubt.

"Good thing we have the high ground," the captain muttered to himself.

Wiping away excess dirt from his mustache, Ken-Goh ordered Petya and his platoon to take defensive positions along the trench.

"Our enemies are right below us. Knock out that MG first."

Petya looked over the parapet, and saw the machinegun team pinning down Chertov. Dmitri, kneeling in the trench to shield himself, was the closest to the position. He nudged him in the shoulder.

"Dmitri, toss a grenade. Hurry!"

Not minding the enemy fire, Dmitri reached for an RG-42 grenade, and pulled on the pin. Wanting to achieve the maximum effect, he waited a few crucial seconds before standing up and tossing the tin can down towards the enemy trench. The instant the grenade landed a large explosion of fragments, dust and smoke followed. All that was left were at least four dead Germans piled on top of each other.

The destruction of the machinegun team allowed Chertov's platoon to advance more swiftly, but even in the rear trenches the Germans would put up a fierce fight. Good thing they had the high ground and sat on the flank.

Anatole took the opportunity to set up his DP-28, and found a perfect firing position. Into the side of another hill was a small dugout for the German troops, covered with a camouflage mesh. Any Germans bold enough to emerge to fight were met by a storm of bullets. Dmitri took position beside his friend, and watched his deadly work. Dmitri could kill a German from a single shot with his Mosin-Nagant, but Anatole wrought deadly hell. When he brought down a German through four bullets to his legs, Dmitri finished him off.

As Chertov's men reached the final trench, a T-34/85 tank crossed the river and moved up in support. Even if the position was untenable, the Germans were determined not to go down without a fight. Natasha, standing atop the hill, looked down on the final position as the rest of Petya's platoon streamed down to flank. One German, shouldering a Panzerschreck, had his sights set on the T-34. (A/N: Panzerschreck: translates literally as "tank terror." A German anti-tank rocket launcher, similar in design to the American bazooka.)

Natasha remembered all of her training, and looked back on the previous kills in Stalingrad. Kursk. Minsk. Warsaw.

As the reticule lined with his head, Natasha determined now was the moment. She slowly squeezed on the trigger, and readied herself for the kickback.

CRACK!

The round connected, and zipped through his neck. A little lower than she would have liked, but a kill was a kill. As he fell backwards, the Panzerschreck inadvertently fired into the air. The warhead zoomed into the sky, leaving behind a thin vapor trail, much like a rocket. Even after four years of war, Natasha boasted accuracy that made her a feared sniper. She smiled as she cycled the bolt and readied another round.

Another German found her attention, reading a hand grenade to throw down on her advancing comrades. He did not even have time to pull the ripcord as she fired, hitting him in his throwing arm. As he dropped down and clutched his wound, Chertov's men closed the distance. It did not take long for the last trench to be cleared.

Ken-Goh congratulated everyone on a job well done just as the T-34 rolled up, ironing over the trenches.

"Wonderful, comrades! At this rate, it will not be long before Berlin is ours."

"I'll drink to that, comrade Captain!" Dmitri cheered joyously.

"Let's beat these Fritzes into the dirt, once and for all!" Anatole shouted in agreement.

A loud, roaring cheer of jubilation went up, and Ken-Goh motioned for the company to follow him onto the tanks.

"Everyone gets a ride! You've earned the rest."

Soon, the whole company mounted up, like cavalrymen on horses in days of old. Anatole nuzzled Dmitri fondly as they moved off the hill, and up onto the _autobahn_. As all looked up into the sky, a squadron of IL-2s flew overhead in perfect formation. Chertov yelled out exuberantly upon seeing them on the tank behind them.

"Fly on, winged brothers! Crush the fascists from above!"


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I hope everyone had a good New Year! I certainly did. I'm really hopeful for 2017. I will not waste too much time with any preliminaries and just say that this chapter along with the next continues the Battle of Berlin. And for those who are worrying that the plot is moving too slow, the main event that kicks off everything will be coming soon.**

 **Read on and Enjoy. And be sure to leave a review, if you'd be so kind!**

* * *

 **Chapter Four**

 **April 25** **th** **, 1945**

 **Approaching Berlin, Germany**

With the defensive lines at Seelow Heights broken, nothing stood between the Soviet armies and Berlin. Only a handful of fractured units, fleeing from the carnage of the heights, slowed the Russian juggernaut. Their advance was relentless, sometimes running far ahead of their supplies and support. However, as the 8th Guards Army under Chuikov drew closer and closer to the city itself, the defenses became more sophisticated. Resistance stiffened. And as a result, heavier tanks and equipment were brought in to support the attack.

One key landmark was the Tempelhof Airport, in the southern suburbs. The flat grounds of the airfields provided a perfect staging area for Soviet tanks. However, more important to Anatole, there were rumors of treasure somewhere in the terminals.

"If we're lucky, we might even find our own personal plane!" he boasted, checking his machine gun. "That'd be quite a trophy to bring back to Stalingrad, no?"

Natasha, sitting on a tank with him and the others in her company, laughed at his wild dreams.

"That'd be hard to bring back overland. We'd need one of our pilot friends to fly it home."

"So? We can ask the 23rd Squadron! They're providing us with cover today, aren't they?"

"If they can spare a pilot, sure. But I'm more interested in getting a good-looking clock. The flat back home really needs one. What about you, Petya?"

Her fiancé and commanding officer looked up at the grey skies. There wasn't much he was hoping to take as spoils of war, but he did have a few things in mind.

"Me? I'd just like a nice wristwatch or a new wallet. But if there's a German officer lying around, I'm hoping he has a wedding ring on him."

Natasha smiled and blushed lightly. How like Petya to be thinking of their marital future even before battle. It had been that way between them since he first proposed to her near the Don River three years prior. Three years. How things for them had changed.

"Wristwatches, you say?" Dmitri cut in. "Take a look at what I managed to find in a shop yesterday!"

The smoke-smeared veteran rolled up his sleeve and showed no more than seven watches wrapped around his arm. They all varied in size, shape and material, but they all made his friends and comrades gasp in awe. It was all the more surprising that Dmitri, a timid, reserved recruit when he first joined them, was capable of exacting plunder from their defeated enemies.

"You want one, comrade Lieutenant? Just take your pick!"

The friends all laughed together as the tanks rolled on. Over their heads another small flight of IL-2 Sturmoviks whizzed by, their engines roaring louder than lions. A cheer went up the column at their sight, as it was more of their fellow troops exacting a heavy toll on their beaten enemies. Spirits were high. How much fight could the fascists have left? They had lost everything, and at such a high cost.

"This will all be over soon," Petya said quietly, grasping at Natasha's hand. "We'll be going home soon."

His grip tightened, as if desperate to hold on to that hope of this war ending at last. Natasha could only return the squeeze, and rested her head gently on his shoulder.

"Da, moi lyubov. Vsyo budyet zakonchit skora. Skora…" (A/N: Yes, my love. All will be over soon. Soon…)

Ken-Goh stood up as best he could, and waved to everyone on his tank. The constant vibration made standing and briefing his men a difficult task.

"Boys, listen up! Our orders are to secure the Tempelhof Airport and clear a corridor into Berlin. The Germans will fight for every inch of the city, so don't let your guard down. Be sharp and ready for anything. Do that, and you'll make it out okay."

Chertov, who was on the next tank over, scoffed at hearing Ken-Goh's impromptu briefing.

"According to Captain Pavlenko," he muttered while cleaning his sword, "the shtrafniki were supposed to clear the airfield." (A/N: Shtrafniki: members of penal battalions or _shtrafnoi battalion (shtrafbat)._ Penal soldiers were usually GULAG prisoners, common criminals, or soldiers serving time for minor infractions such as assaulting a commanding officer. Penal units were usually given the most dangerous assignments such as clearing minefields or assaulting strong enemy defenses.)

"Maybe the shtrafniki all deserted?" Karataev wondered, smoking a cigarette.

"Ridiculous," a sergeant cut in. "The NKVD would shoot them all on sight if that happened."

"Yeah, and make them trample through some more minefields!"

There was a soft laugh among all in his squad. Serving in the penal battalions was akin to a death sentence, but his soldiers had to wonder. Was it anything compared to being under Chertov's command?

"Comrades, listen," Chertov spoke, "remember something. We went through a lot to get here. We've suffered untold hardships to reach Berlin. Our lands have been ravaged, our homes destroyed, and our loved ones tormented and killed. Everyone here has lost family and friends. Don't forget what they did to us, comrades. Give them all hell."

There was a murmuring of agreement among the ranks and a bobbing of heads in agreeing nods. Chertov certainly still had a lot of anger and fight left in him. Was there a place for him after the end of this war? A place that didn't involve fighting? Chertov himself did not even know. All he knew was to defeat the Germans.

After being at war for so long, it was easy to grow accustomed.

A tank crewman stuck his head out of the cupola, and pulled off his headphones.

"Comrades, Stavka is giving us a song to fight to! Want to listen?" Chertov smiled lightly, curious.

"Sure. Why not?"

One ear touched the headphones and was greeted with the triumphal march and strong voices of the Red Army Choir. Other soldiers gathered around, and they joined in the chorus.

 _Apple and pear trees were blooming._

 _O'er the river the fog merrily rolled._

 _On the steep banks walked Katyusha,_

 _On the high bank she slowly strode._

The musically dissonant choir made its way to Petya's tank. While Dmitri quietly hummed the melody, Anatole was keen to add to the chorus.

 _As she walked, she sang a sweet song_

 _Of her silver eagle of the steppe,_

 _Of the one she loved so dearly,_

 _And the one whose letters she had kept._

Now, as the control tower and concourses of Tempelhof entered their sights, the entire tank column was now alive with the jolly voices of soldiers. Everyone, from officers to enlisted men, from veterans to the new recruits, joined in as if the war was already over, and they were heading home after a long journey. But the journey was not over. Not by a long shot.

BOOM! CRASH!

A large fireball erupted at the front of their tank column, and the mood swiftly shifted from joy to terror. When a stray shell landed near the road, all soldiers scrambled off the tanks. They were entering a battle zone. The chords of Katyusha still filled the ears of tank crews as all hatches were closed, and guns were loaded.

"Hatches! Hatches! Back up, back up!"

"Where the hell did that come from?"

"There wasn't supposed to be any resistance!"

First Company immediately dropped to the ground, trying to spot the direction of their enemies. Ahead of them were the airplane hangars, and beyond that the airfields themselves. Ken-Goh looked through his binoculars, scanning the horizon for any sign of their foes. The hangars, their silver and white paint slowly decaying from the years of wear and bombardment by the Allies.

Light grey fumes emanated from one hangar with a gaping hole in the doorways. As they cleared, Ken-Goh thought he saw the muzzle of an anti-tank gun, and silhouettes of a gun crew. Looking back, he saw their company's radio operator. A young redhead and new recruit, hurriedly looking around in a fit of panic.

"Hey, Alexei! Come up here, quick, and keep your head down!"

The radio operator crawled along the ground towards Ken-Goh. He dared not raise his head, lest a sniper pick him off. Far too often was the fate of many a conscript. When the distance closed, Ken-Goh quickly grabbed the receiver. They needed support.

"Tiger eight, this is Bear three. I have a target. Anti-tank gun, 500 meters. Look for the hangar with the blown doorway. Over."

" _Roger, Bear three. Target spotted and engaging. Get your men moving. It's time to clear the airfield! Over."_

"Copy."

Behind First Company the tank column had turned their focus towards the airport. An IS-2 heavy tank slowly traversed its turret, searching for the target Ken-Goh had called out. The radio chatter offered another set of eyes to the whole battle.

" _Mikhailovich, get that bastard before he zeroes in."_

" _I can't see him. Where the hell is he?"_

" _Look for the hangar with the damaged doorway."_

" _Found him! FIRE!"_

The tank's cannon opened up with the sound of a lion's roar, and Ken-Goh flinched as the shell whizzed over his head with a high whistle. For him it was the cue to move forward and support the advance. Standing up, he waved his hand and ordered all men forward.

"Forward, men! Our comrades need this airfield clear. Sa mnoi!" (A/N: With me!)

All at once, the men and women rose and followed their officer into the fray. As he stood up from the ground, Petya saw the deadly work of their armored escort: a shell found its target in the hangar, and a mixture of orange flames and grey smoke erupted from the doorway, which collapsed from the blast. The anti-tank gun had been eliminated, and a moment of opportunity had to be seized. They had to move forward.

Their heads were all on a swivel with each step they took, keeping an eye out for any future targets. A squeal of tank tracks accompanied a sudden lurch of the armored column, moving steadily behind the advancing infantry. It was an awesome sight to behold for any observer; the entire might of the Red Army descending upon the lair of the Nazi beast. Such a sight was just a veil, however, for the true horror and cost of war. A fresh-faced lieutenant motioned for all to stay low, lest they be cut down by enemy fire. No sooner had he opened his mouth when a curtain of bullets ripped through the air. The lieutenant along with several replacements fell at the front. Even the hardened veterans were shaken at the sight of how easily their comrades could fall. How much fight could the enemy have left?

Petya recalled his platoon to file in the back of a T-34/85 tank to provide cover. There wasn't much else they could do except follow. However, the enemy machinegun did not show any mercy, and four more soldiers were cut down. The thump of each body only made Petya's hair stand on end, and made the matter all the more pressing.

"Ostavaisya za tankami! Davai, davai!" (A/N: Stay behind the tanks! Come on!)

A small column formed behind the tank's engine. Natasha, coughing from the exhaust, made a headcount to see if they had lost anyone.

"Natasha, how many did we lose?" Petya asked.

"Yusupov and Kovtin bought it, looks like. Everyone else is here. Is everyone all right?"

"Da, tovarisch serzhant!" they all chanted back. (A/N: Yes, comrade sergeant!)

Petya climbed up onto the tank to consult with the commander, but just then, another loud explosion was heard off to their left. Another shell had found its mark in a T-34/76. The turret blew apart in a fiery orange ball, scattering shrapnel in all directions. Petya ducked, and almost fell off the tank as he heard the soft "plink" of an armor shard scratching the tank's chassis. The tank commander was now deeply concerned.

"That's another AT gun. Who's got eyes on it?"

" _Fucking hell, I can't see shit. We need the 23_ _rd_ _Squadron to clear the way!"_

Petya nodded, and motioned for the radio operator to join him on the tank. Alexei fumbled with the receiver before handing it to Petya, who immediately called on his winged comrades.

"23rd, this is Bear three. Do you read me, over?"

" _Copy, Bear three. I have you on sight. What do you need? Over."_

"We're facing AT fire from the hangars. Need to you level them so we can move forward. Follow the muzzle blasts! Over."

" _Roger, I see the hangars. Enjoy the fireworks, comrades. Coming in hot!"_

The duo leaped off the tank and rejoined the platoon in its steady march. Natasha was about to say something when she heard the whirring of airplane motors. Looking up, she saw the red star clear as day on the green wings of a pair of IL-2s. To see them was comforting and almost inspiring; it was just proof of how far they had come in four years of war. Not too long ago the Luftwaffe dominated the skies and she always had to keep an eye upward.

One IL-2 peppered a hangar with its machine guns, ripping apart the roof and sheet metal walls. The other quickly followed with a rocket before lurching into a climb. The rocket cut through the roof like a scissors through paper and promptly detonated in a loud boom. Red sparks and stifling black smoke erupted from every window and crack in the hangar. A direct hit.

The process was repeated with the other hangars, until all that was left were smoldering ruins. Both IL-2s swung around and bore the red star to the advancing troops, who erupted in cheers. Cheers in awe at Soviet airpower.

" _We'll circle around for another pass. Clear that airport! Over."_

All Soviet troops took that as a cue to quicken the pace of their attack. They couldn't afford to bottleneck the main advance. Each tank commander called for an increase to full throttle and Ken-Goh likewise called for First Company to speed up.

"Double time, comrades! Move, move!"

The men broke into a run as the tanks picked up speed. Racing past the destroyed hangars, the distant control tower stood as a beacon to the advancing troops. The concourse and main terminals were riddled with the scars of war, and seemed barely functional. It was impossible to conceive of anyone still using the airport in any capacity, military or otherwise. The entire place seemed deserted to an untrained eye. But to Ken-Goh and his men, it was a readymade fortification.

A T-34/76 moved steadily onto the first runway, aiming its turret upward at the control tower, scanning for targets. Natasha, knowing that moving in the open was equal to painting a bullseye on her body, hugged the ground near the edge of the tarmac and peered through her scope.

At the top of the tower, there was a single observer peering through binoculars. She felt a chill run up her back, thinking they were looking right at each other. Panning down, Natasha saw gaping holes in the side of the terminal. It was too dark inside to see much of anything, but Natasha had been trained to look for silhouettes, the dark luster of weapons, or the glint of a sniper scope. Another tank rumbled past her, and Petya quickly joined his fiancée down beside the tarmac.

"What do you see?"

"I'm not sure…spotted one observer up in the tower. He looked to be a spotter."

"Anything else? Machineguns or flak cannons? We can't afford to lose any more tanks."

"I don't see any…"

However, her sentence was cut short by the long profile of a cannon from a large hole in the terminal walls. Adjusting her sights, the outline became more clear. It was the deadliest of anti-tank weapons, a Flak 88-millimeter gun. Normally used against aircraft, it was a potent force against tanks, as one hit from the massive gun could destroy a regular T-34 in an instant. Natasha's eyes widened.

"…Jesus, it's an 88!"

"We have to warn our—!"

But the decision was too late, and they both heard the boom of the Flak 88. The round whistled across the runways before connecting with an IS-2 heavy tank's engine. The tank suddenly stopped with a loud crash as the engine erupted in fire and burning petrol. As the crew frantically abandoned the tank, some on fire themselves, an MG42 raked across the tarmac and shredded them. Blood smeared the chassis and turret as the bodies fell off, lifeless.

All of First Company immediately hit the dirt and took cover behind the tarmac, trying to find their foes. The tanks likewise stopped, uncertain and confused at what to do. Alexei's radio blared the chaos the ambush had wrought.

" _Where the hell did that come from?!"_

" _That was a high velocity round. Must be an 88 nearby."  
"Throw some smoke in that fucker's face! We can't afford to lose any more tanks!"_

One after another, the remaining tanks in the armored escort launched smoke rounds towards the terminal. Gradually the horizon was obscured by a curtain of grey mist. While this saved the tanks from further fire, it also made Natasha's job of locating the MG42 that much harder. Petya nudged her, suggesting they move.

"Let's go, before the smoke dissipates!"

Reluctantly she rose, and followed her fiancé across the tarmac to join with Ken-Goh and the rest of First Company. Crossing the runway was akin to running a deadly gauntlet, as the MG42 swiveled its aim to meet the new targets. The fire claimed three fresh conscripts as new victims, whose dying cries haunted even the bravest of veterans. As they all hunkered behind the runway, Natasha tried again to locate the machinegun while Ken-Goh briefed the officers.

"Is everyone still here?"

"We lost Danilov, sir," Petya replied, "but my platoon is still ready to go."

"Just give my men the word," Chertov yelled over the gunfire, "and we'll cut these fascists down to size."

"Cool it, Chertov," another lieutenant quipped sarcastically. "We can't just brute force this. Unless you want to do what you tried at Mamaev Kurgan again?"

Chertov said nothing, but only glared in indignation. A small chuckle rippled through the ranks before Ken-Goh coughed, recalling all back to the here and now.

"Comrades, we need to take out that gun. Otherwise it will rip apart our armored escort." His tired eyes shifted to Petya's trusted sniper and their mutual lifelong friend. "Natasha, did you spot where that 88 was?"

"I think so. It was on the bottom floor of the main terminal."  
"Otlichna. Okay, here's the plan: the snipers and machine gun team will stay here and provide support. Petya, your platoon will clear the terminal and knock out that gun. Chertov, you take the control tower. We need to do this fast or else we'll bottleneck the main advance. Tochna?" (A/N: Excellent.)

"Tak tochna!"

Petya, not content to just leave Natasha without a word, lay by her side as she set herself up to fire. With a tap on her shoulder, he was greeted by those loving brown eyes and a swish of her dark ponytailed hair. War had not diminished her beauty in the slightest.

"Lyubova moya, are you sure you're okay with this?" Natasha laughed quietly. It was something she heard often from Petya.

"It's not a sniper's job to be on the frontlines, Petya. I'll be fine."

"Must be crazy boring when you're not, though."

"It can be, but it's okay. At least I am helping you, Ken-Goh, Dima, and Tolya in my own way."

"If you say so…but…"

His face disappeared underneath her cloak, and the distance between them was a mere eyelash.

"…I'll make up for the boredom tonight," he whispered with a wink.

Natasha couldn't help but kiss him deeply at those words. Even in the middle of battle, Petya could not help but be romantic. His passion knew no bounds.

"Hey, loverboy!" a veteran called. "Save the pillow talk for after we've won the fight!"

Natasha giggled as Petya sighed in resignation.

"Don't keep your men waiting, lieutenant."

Petya rejoined his command, and slowly made his way along the runway towards the control tower and terminal. They took care to hide behind the tarmac lest they be ripped apart by the MG42. An engineer joined them, carrying a handful of explosives to breach the terminal walls. As Petya looked back, he saw Natasha fire her rifle, and the MG42 was immediately silenced. He smiled. There wasn't another person he knew with better aim than her.

Chertov's platoon joined Petya in a short trek towards the control tower. The very image of him cut a sharp contrast with Petya. He wore a dress sword into battle, something that was better placed in the last century than in the modern world of tanks and airplanes. A pristine officer's cap nestled atop his head, bearing the red star with a gold hammer and sickle imposed in the center. Even the shoulder boards that indicated his rank were better placed in ceremonial halls than on a smoke-covered battlefield.

Petya couldn't contain a scoff as Chertov roughly grabbed a conscript to get him out of the line of fire.

The platoon stacked up along a scuffed wall, and waited for the engineer to plant the charges. At the same time, Petya briefed his men.

"Comrades, listen. When that bomb goes off, I want everyone to rush in and secure a perimeter. We'll push through the concourse until we find that 88. This has to be quick; we've already lost too many tanks getting here. Tochna?"

"Tak tochna, sir!"

The engineer smiled and looked up.

"The explosives are all set to go. Get ready, comrades!"

Dmitri felt a chill run down his back as he clutched his Mosin-Nagant rifle. For all he knew, the Germans had the entire airport booby-trapped, and a nasty surprise was waiting for them behind the walls. A slight shiver had Anatole gently squeeze his shoulder.

"Keep your cool, Dima. We're not about to die at the end of everything. That'd be anticlimactic, no?" Dmitri gulped.

"I just fear what the fascists have in store for us."

"We've pushed them all the way to their capital. What more could they hope to throw at us?"

"Even if that's true…"

Anatole turned Dmitri around, and he was greeted by those strange red eyes. The eyes that offered friendship and invoked fear at the same time.

"I remember when you first came to us at Kursk. You were barely trained, but look at you now! You'll be fine, Dima. We're all here with you. In the Red Army, we are all brothers."

Dmitri smiled. How could he have forgotten? There were far too many times when he could have easily been killed. Even at Kursk, his first taste of combat, there was next to no chance of him surviving. But he only made it this far with the help and support of his fellow soldiers.

All clung to the wall and braced themselves for the loud explosion to accompany the breach. Petya peeked out and saw a hole being blown into the bottom of the control tower. Chertov's platoon rushed in one by one, accompanied by rapid machinegun fire and screams. As much as he despised Chertov, he was at least a capable soldier. At least he was out of the way.

BOOM!

The wall was breached and they were all covered in plaster and wood splinters. Petya coughed his orders as their vision was shrouded in a haze of smoke and debris.

"GO! GO! GO!"

They poured in like water through a broken dam, trying to locate the enemy. Dmitri struggled to make out a silhouette in the distance, but when a bullet snapped past his helmet, that was when he knew to fire. Raising his Mosin-Nagant, he shot at the chest of the silhouette, which collapsed with a cry. But something was different this time.

The cry of pain was shrill, like a hurt child. The silhouette itself was rather diminutive in stature, as well. No, it couldn't be…!

As they emerged from the hole, they found themselves at the farthest gate of the terminal. Empty chairs were turned over and transformed into makeshift barricades. One ticket counter had a sniper parked behind the desk, while another had a support gunner firing an Sturmgewehr-44. As Dmitri looked down, the smoke cleared away and revealed his kill.

A little boy with curly blonde hair, no more than 11, lay dead with a single shot to his heart. In his small hands he held a Gewehr-43, far too big for him to wield. The boy was dressed in black and wore a white and red armband bearing a swastika. They were Hitler Youths.

"Holy shit...!"

Dmitri had hardly a moment to contemplate what he had just done with Anatole pulled him behind a pile of overturned chairs to avoid incoming fire. As Anatole set up his DP-28 machine gun, Dmitri's eyes were fixated on the little boy's body. Blood started to pool around it like ghastly rainwater.

"Tolya," he said, his voice shaking, "they're just kids…the fascists are using little kids…"

"If they stand for Germany," he said resolutely, aiming down his sights, "they die for Germany."

To make his point clear, Anatole gunned down the sniper behind the ticket counter as wood splinters flew in all directions. However, the sniper managed to claim one kill: a young submachine gunner who tried to dash between cover, with a single shot through the head. The helmet cracked and blood covered his face as he fell with a loud, sickening thump.

Even with the battle raging, Dmitri could not comprehend such madness. How low would the fascists sink? How desperate were they to stave off inevitable defeat? Was nothing sacred to them? Children deserved to be spared this horror, but the need for bodies trumped morality. The Fuhrer called for all to defend the Fatherland. The young, the old, and the weak.

Dmitri lay down on the floor and peeked around the barricade, looking down the concourse. Another terrible sight unfolded as his allies moved steadily forward. Petya led one squad on the right while another sergeant headed the attack on the left, with Anatole providing base-of-fire support. Down the middle came a cohort of four Germans, including two Hitler Youths. One lad, 12, carried only a pistol, while the other, 14, had a shortened Kar98k rifle. The 14-year-old leveled his rifle and fired at the advancing column. Surprisingly, he was effective and managed to wound the radio operator, Alexei. As he fell gripping his shoulder, Petya retaliated with a spray from his PPSh-41.

Seven bullets pierced the young teenager's body, and he fell face first to the floor. The 12-year-old was instantly struck in a mixture of sorrow and terror at the loss of his friend. As he tried to raise his comrade up to continue the fight, the two older Germans scrambled behind another barricade. The 12-year-old refused to leave, despite the calls of the two veterans. Tears clouded his vision as he cried in desperation.

"Fritz! Fritz, steh auf, bitte!" (A/N: Fritz! Fritz, get up, please!)

Dmitri looked to Petya, wondering what he would do. For a moment, his superior and friend hesitated. He was trained to kill the enemy. But would that even apply if the enemy was no more than a grade schooler?

"Dima!" yelled a sergeant. "Stop lying there like an idiot and fire!"

He bit his lip, and prayed that God or whatever cosmic force existed could forgive him for what he did. Lining up his sights, Dmitri pulled the trigger of his rifle. A single shot resounded, and found its mark in the young Hitler Youth's head. His body snapped back like a twig blown by squall before lying motionless on his back.

As Dmitri cycled the bolt, he bit back a shudder. What kind of war was this?

Anatole packed up his machine gun and moved up with the rest of the squad, calling for Dmitri to do the same. Getting on his feet was akin to climbing the Urals before he could move forward. This was not the fight he wanted. He was ready to serve the Motherland, to vanquish all its enemies, but did that mean even these little children?

On the other side of the advance, the older Germans put up a stiffer resistance behind the barricade, and stopped Petya's advance with a hail of fire from MP40s and Sturmgewehr-44s. Two more conscripts were lost in the blast as Petya's men struggled to find cover. As if that were not enough, another German tossed out a hand grenade towards the advancing troops.

"SCATTER! GRENADE!"

In a wave of confusion, the Soviets rushed about to find some shelter from the incoming grenade. Petya, together with Alexei, hid behind a ticket kiosk, where they were joined by another Hitler Youth's dead body. Just staring into the empty blue eyes and smelling the sickeningly sweet blood on his young face was enough to make Petya's stomach turn.

The grenade detonated, but the men had acted quickly enough for the throw to be ineffective. By this time, Anatole had found a new firing position and turned his attention to the barricade. A constant, sustained fire turned the tables on the Germans, and now it was they who hid behind their cover. Petya was not about to let this opportunity pass.

"Flank! Flank around!"

He and two submachine gunners hung a wide right around the barricade, clinging windows which provided a view for the battle outside. Petya could see the low profile of a German StuG-IV assault gun battling with a T-34. Assault guns like that were cheaper to make than heavy panzers, and could easily fill the role of an ordinary tank. However, it looked like his comrades were making progress. It made finding that 88 all the more pressing. Soon they were on the left side of the barricade, and the trio opened fire into the enemy. One German tried to run, but was shot in the leg before he could get too far. The others barely had time to stand up before the earsplitting PPSh-41s cut them all down.

Dmitri shook with every step over the Germans' dead bodies as he followed the rest of the platoon forward. The mere sight of the dead Hitler Youths was enough to make him retch in disgust. Anatole caught him.

"Hey, Dima, look at me. You okay?" Dmitri shook his head with uncertainty and gulped.

"I just can't believe it. Fritz is _so_ desperate, they'll even use kids and old men?"

"You know, when I joined up, I was not much older than any of them. It was a desperate time for us too, Dima. We would do anything to hold the fascists back. In that sense, we're no different than them."

The sergeant broke up the quick pep talk with harsh words for both.

"Hey, Borodin! Voronin! Quit the chit-chat and hurry up!"

Alas, there was no time to contemplate or reflect. Only to advance and to fight. The two young men sprinted to catch up to their fellow fighters, all of whom were nearing a series of doors on the right wall. As they approached the doors, the roof shook with a series of synchronized booms. The blast of cannons. Their target was near.

Petya and Anatole pressed their ears against each door to determine the location of the cannon, moving down after each boom. At the same time, Dmitri and the rest of the platoon covered them, providing a moving perimeter against any sudden attack.

"Keep your eyes peeled, comrades," the sergeant remarked. "Fritz could be hiding anywhere."

"Did you see those kids?" remarked one female conscript. "I can't believe the fascists would use children to fight."

"Adolf must be getting desperate," replied an older veteran. "They're running out of able bodies to fill the ranks. Doesn't make them any less of a threat."

"You may say that, but—"

Suddenly a door on their left burst open. Out of the VIP lounge came a swarm of Hitler Youths armed with all manner of weapons. The eldest of them barely looked 15. As they engulfed the platoon, the entire hall was lit up in gunfire, but Dmitri, just as before, hesitated to shoot them. The sergeant, looking back from his kills, flew into a rage.

"Don't just stand there, you fucking idiot! SHOOT!"

"But sir, they're just little boys!"

"I don't care if they're babies! SHOOT. THEM!"

One Hitler Youth with cropped blonde hair and ice blue eyes cut through the perimeter and charged at Dmitri with a combat knife, screaming like a demon. With his life on the line, a hair's breadth separating him from death, he lost all control. With one resolute push, he thrust his rifle forward into the boy's belly and pulled the trigger. The rifle blew a hole through the young lad, and sprayed his comrades' backs with dark red blood. He moaned in agony as blood escaped his mouth, mixed with saliva and collapsed to the ground. In a split second, the attack was over. No one was severely hurt, but Dmitri was badly shaken.

He fiddled with the bolt, breathing heavily and whimpering like a wounded dog.

In the meantime, Petya found the door where their target lay. The boom was so loud it almost knocked them all off their feet. Petya marked the door with an X by his combat knife, and pulled Dmitri aside for another duty.

"Get a grenade ready, Dima. When I give the word, you toss it in."

Still trying to recover from the shock, Dmitri struggled to pull a grenade from off his belt. Finally, after much effort, he primed an RGD-33 stick grenade, and looked to his lieutenant. Petya slowly turned the knob on the door as the German gun crew shouted orders.

"Achtung! Feuer schutz!"

Another loud boom echoed through the terminal. Petya nodded and quickly pulled open the door. Dmitri tossed in the grenade, and the door was shut as soon as it was opened. A few seconds passed before a loud explosion was heard. Small puffs of smoke escaped through the cracks of the door and groans of pain were heard. That was the moment.

Now Anatole flung open the door and unloaded the remainder of his magazine into the remaining crewmen. One, dazed and barely alive, tried to raise his hands in surrender but he was too slow. Several bullets pierced his face and helmet before he collapsed onto his side. Another fell against the wall, staring blankly at Dmitri through the doorway with a grenade shard stuck between his eyes.

Dmitri felt the need to leave, and excused himself. The sergeant tried to stop him, but Petya called him off. It was something he had seen before, in the freshest of recruits and the most hardened of veterans. A desperate wish for everything to just end. At the same time, Alexei radioed Ken-Goh, informing the captain of their success.

"Bear three, this is Bear five. Come in, over."

" _This is Bear three. Petya, are you all right? How is everything? Over."_

"We've knocked out that 88, sir. It's silent. The way is clear for the tanks. Over."

" _Great work, Petya! Come meet me outside the terminal for a debrief. ETA in 10 minutes. Out."_

Petya was about to leave, but something stopped him. Some unnamed, invisible force compelled him to stay. He too had seen the Hitler Youths and their willingness to die. Anyone would be shaken to their core after seeing such innocents eagerly go into battle like lambs to the slaughter. He sighed heavily, wondering just how far this war had gone and how low they had all sunk to get to this point.

"Anatole?" he asked in a shaky voice, wiping his brow.

"What is it, old friend?"

"Tell me you saw those kids trying to kill us."

There was a brief pause. Anatole looked over and saw the lifeless body of a Hitler Youth. The one Dmitri had violently stabbed and shot.

"…I did. God help me, I did."

"What the hell is happening to us, Tolya? How far have we fallen if we're now fighting little ones?" Anatole sighed, seeing what his superior and friend was getting at. It was hardly a comforting thought.

"When you get down to it, Petya, we were little kids too when this war started. We signed up because we were desperate to hold back the Nazi invasion. None of us knew what was in store for us."

"Even so, are you comfortable with that? I mean, just fucking look at them! They're young enough to be my brothers!"

Petya slid down a wall, unable to find the strength to stand. Anatole reached out to him and knelt down beside his commander. Clearly, everyone was tired of this fight. Even their fearless platoon leader. The luminous young lad who always braved enemy fire, took the lead in missions, and managed to climb his way up to be one of the youngest lieutenants in the army.

"Look, I don't blame them. Hell, if I blame anyone, it's that mudak Adolf who brainwashed all of them. This is his fault. But all the same, if one of them points a gun at me, I'm not going to hesitate. Neither should you."

Petya said nothing, but punched the floor with a furious fist. This was not the war he volunteered to fight in. This was not what he wanted when he chose to defend his country. This was not what he expected to find in the lair of the Nazi beast.

Slowly he rose, and made his way towards the exit left by the explosion. He had to consult with Ken-Goh. And after that, he needed to be with Natasha for the rest of the night.

At the breach where they made their entrance, Dmitri came beside the body of the first Hitler Youth. The first one killed in this brutal battle. Looking more closely, he could see the child's entire life story in his young, innocent face.

Dmitri sniffled as his glazed eyes scanned down the body. There was a small photograph peeking from underneath his tunic. Curious, he reached for it and examined it. The sight was enough to make him bawl.

A grainy photograph showed the small child in the middle with the happiest smile Dmitri had ever seen. On each side he had two older siblings. A brother on the right, perhaps 20, and a sister on the left, 18. In the background, a beautiful woman, presumably the mother, looked down on her brood with a motherly grin. To Dmitri, it was peering into another world. Where there was no war. No death or destruction. Only peace and love.

In that photograph, for a fleeting moment, Dmitri saw himself when he was younger. Back home in his village, surrounded by family and friends.

Unable to restrain himself, tears flowed freely from Dmitri's eyes as he broke down in sobs. It wasn't just for the death of that little boy. His tears were shed for the insanity that possessed the world like a demon. How was it that war had come to this, where even the young and the weak were not spared its horrors? Why couldn't this bloody war end already?

What on earth were they all fighting for, anyway?

»»»»»

 **Several hours later**

After his horrific encounter with the Hitler Youths, Petya found solace in Natasha.

They were staying in an abandoned lounge in Tempelhof Airport, safe from peeping eyes and prying ears. Their bed was a simple brown sofa, made for VIPs and Nazi bureaucrats, with small lamp in the corner providing their light. It was an amazing night of passion for them, as they explored each other's bodies and the confines of their bed. Petya felt like he was floating on clouds when Natasha graced him with her lips and soft touch. Her naked warmth and sultry teasing eased Petya's emotional disturbances, offering him a world of intrigue and love.

Once it was Petya's turn, Natasha assured him that she would not break easily. If he had to let it out in some way, this would certainly help. With those sweet words, the experienced lieutenant made it his mission to please his ravishing fiancée. Natasha and Petya were in sync with the other's movements. When a moan escaped Petya's lips, so did Natasha's. When Natasha desired for a kiss, Petya gave it to her without restraint. When Petya cried out in passion, Natasha followed suit.

After what felt like a lifetime, and when both were thoroughly spent, Petya broke down in tears. He let out his sorrow and anguish for all that happened to them since the beginning of the war. The destruction of Stalingrad. Chertov's ruthless betrayal of him and their comrades. Traipsing across eastern Europe fighting and killing more Germans than he could hope to count. The scars of Nazi crimes against countless people. The tragic sight of German youths fighting and dying for an already dead, hollowed out ideal. All of the emotions he was forced to suppress for the sake of his men were now released.

The beautiful sniper offered nothing but comforting words.

"Natasha," he said quietly, his blue eyes clouded with tears. "I want nothing more than for this war to end. But, how is that possible when your enemies are little kids? I never once entertained the thought of fighting children and yet…"

"We were kids when we started this, moi lyubov," Natasha admitted. "Remember how we both lied about our age to the recruitment office? Back then we were desperate to hold back the Germans. They seemed unstoppable. Now _they're_ getting desperate. Sending those little ones is just proof they will resort to even the lowest of tactics."

"To think the Nazis would willingly throw those children into the fire. Those children don't deserve to die like that…!" Natasha gently stroked his scarred, wet cheek, in an effort to wipe away the anger and depression.

"I know, Petya, I know."

Petya wrapped his strong arms around his future wife's hips. Slowly he lowered himself onto her chest, resting near her beating heart. Her heart that loved him. As he heard each beat, he couldn't help but notice how mature her body had grown in four years of war. How beautiful she was.

"We have to keep fighting. But it's not just about winning the war. Innocent blood is being spilled. Little babies are forced into this madness. There's no point in restoring the world if the next generation won't live to see peace come into fruition."

"You're right," Natasha nodded, breaking apart from the embrace to look at her beau. "Adolf has poisoned his own fatherland to use those poor children. But, we'll prove him wrong. I know we will."

The youngest lieutenant in the army nodded firmly. He was thankful to have Natasha by his side. Thankful that she always knew what to say to soothe him. And blessed to know that she would be his life until the very end.

Just then, Petya slowly got up from bed. He grabbed his tunic and pants from the wooden floor. Natasha looked at him quizzically as she sat up, her blanket wrapped around her body like a nightgown. Every contour of her body was highlighted to Petya. The bountiful bust, narrow waist, and wide hips.

"Sorry, I need to go."

"Where are you going?" Natasha asked.

"I have to go see Ken-Goh and the others. We need to discuss the plans for tomorrow: we'll be moving into Berlin proper."

"Is he expecting you this moment?"

"Well, no."

The battle-hardened sniper smiled slyly, leaped off the bed, and crept behind her future husband. A slight shiver went down Petya's spine as he felt her warmth against his back. He could not contain a shudder as she snaked her arms around his torso and delivered butterfly kisses on his shoulders.

"Then, you still have time to kill. There's no need to be in a hurry, Petya."

The blonde lad turned around and caressed his lover's face, slowly pulling her close.

"Ken-Goh hates it when I'm late."

"I know," Natasha smirked. "And that's the fun part."

With a strong hand and with a willing heart, Petya followed her back to the sofa, and both disappeared under the blanket. A meeting could wait. His heart and his soul still needed to be strengthened for this next fight. Hopefully, it would be the last fight.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I must confess that writing the Battle of Berlin chapters were a lot of fun, since I had visited the city last year. Seeing all of the major battle sites helped me plan out what would happen in this chapter. Although, I kind of wish I had written more. Sadly, when you're planning a whole novel, some stuff doesn't make the cut.**

 **If you squint really hard, you will be able to spot a few character cameos in this chapter. Some of them will make a return appearance later in the novel as well; won't say who, though. This won't be the last time we will see Petya and the men and women of First Company either, though after this the focus switches back to Renton and his friends at home in the states. Something huge is coming, and it's going to change his life forever.**

 **For now, read on, enjoy, and leave a review!**

* * *

 **Chapter Five**

 **April 30** **th** **, 1945**

 **Somewhere in Berlin, Germany**

The battle at Tempelhof Airport was just a taste of the ferocity to come and the near-suicidal fanaticism of the city's defenders. As the Red Army ventured towards the city center, the Wehrmacht grew more desperate to bleed their enemy white. However, when faced with a lack of tanks and planes, they spared no expense, not even those too weak to defend themselves. This was made deadly evident in the use of the German Volkssturm.

Comprised almost entirely of young boys and old men, they were the last of Germany's available manpower. On their own, the most they could do was hold off an attack for an hour. With training, they could use a simple Panzerfaust to destroy a T-34 tank. Even with the odds clearly stacked against them, any hope for victory long gone, and defeat staring them in the face, ordinary Germans were relentless and determined to die fighting. Even the most grizzled Red Army veteran could not help but admire and pity the Volkssturm. (A/N: A recoilless throw-away anti-tank weapon used by Germany from 1943 until the end of the war. Literally means "tank fist." It was cheap to mass-produce and easy to use, making it a mainstay of the _Volkssturm_ forces during the battle of Berlin.)

Ilya Chertov looked over a recently captured Volkssturm combatant, a young boy with cropped blonde hair and green eyes. He stood at half the height of the lieutenant, his hands shaking with fear at what would happen to him. No doubt, his family was dead and his home destroyed. As Chertov drank from his vodka flask, he asked the boy a question.

"So tell me, little Fritz, who taught you how to fire that Panzerfaust? You managed to kill Sergeant Asimov and his whole crew."

The boy said nothing, but his lips quivered slightly. Naturally, he couldn't understand what Chertov was saying.

"Adolf is sending kids in diapers to fight now," he thought aloud, shaking his head. "Can you even fire a gun?"

Once again, silence. The boy rubbed his arm in slight discomfort and anxiety. He turned away from the lieutenant's gaze. Chertov raised his eyes to Alekseev and Karataev, holding him by the shoulders.

"Take him away. Put him with the others."

"Y-yes, sir," Alekseev returned, a quiver in his voice.

As the two soldiers marched off their prisoner, Chertov headed in the direction of regimental headquarters. Down the buckled Berlin street. Past a small courtyard with a ceramic fountain in the center. A loud boom of an artillery shell sounded in the distance, and the rumble of a tank almost shook the ground beneath him as it cruised past.

Five days had passed since they entered Berlin proper. Five days of witnessing a once beautiful city, a center of culture and learning, slowly reduced to ashes and ruins. Five days of watching civilians scream and flee in terror at the sight of oncoming tanks and hulking soldiers. Five days, and the Germans still could not see the futility of further fighting.

A squad of Soviet soldiers rushed by him, with the sergeant giving a sharp salute. Chertov returned it, watching as the soldiers disappeared under an archway and into a gunfight. The spatter of machine gun fire and boom of grenades persisted even after he had gone. More heroes for the Motherland to glorify.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chertov spotted a cameraman, wearing an armband signifying he was with the press. Apart from that, the uniform was exactly the same as a common soldier. The cameraman panned to Chertov as he approached the outdoor table where Dewey was conversing with various officers. The cameraman had a pale complexion, with thin black glasses mounted on a prominent Roman nose. The lieutenant scoffed.

"…the fuck is a Jew boy from Agitprop doing here?" he muttered. (A/N: Agitprop: Portmanteau of agitation and propaganda. In Soviet times, this word referred to the official Soviet Ministry of Propaganda. This was the ministry responsible for public relations, and published propaganda and media with an explicitly political message.

Dewey raised his head and smiled at the sight of Chertov.

"Ah, Lieutenant! Good for you to join us! I was just finishing up the briefing, but I will tell you the details personally."

About time, Chertov thought to himself. He got up from his sitting spot and marched over to his boss. With a quick salute, Chertov greeted Dewey.

"Thank you, sir. I would like to know every detail you can give me."

Dewey nodded before shifting his eyes back to one of the officers. Vladimir, the battalion commander.

"Now, Major Koslov, I am charging your battalion with the capture of this building, here." He pointed to a single square on the map. "I want you to send your best troops in to retrieve a high-value target."

"Who is he, sir?"

"A doctor, Franz Deckard by name. This man has offered his cooperation to our cause."

Vladimir shifted his eyes back to the block, filled with apprehension. A lowly doctor was the target? A man who, undoubtedly, had committed atrocities in a death camp somewhere in the ruins of the Reich?

Chertov, likewise, was unconvinced at the importance of this doctor.

"Due respect, comrade Colonel, but how do you know he is so important? What is he working on, specifically?"

"That is not your concern, Lieutenant. Now Major, I want to be as clear as possible: his work and research is invaluable to the Soviet Union. He is NOT to be harmed under any circumstances; if you disobey that order…I will shoot you myself."

Chertov shut his mouth the second that threat was issued upon himself and Vladmir. He knew better than to offend his superior. His blood ran cold as he felt Dewey's harsh glare of death making him smaller than a field mouse.

Vladmir, on the other hand, was quite confused and nettled with Dewey's change of mood. He knew better than to give in to his older brother's threats and insults. During his childhood, Dewey had a tendency to threaten him with violence but he never followed through. He wasn't even trying to give them a proper explanation! Anyone would feel apprehensive to have a German doctor tag along in their units.

"Sir," Vladimir started, "I hardly think the men of my battalion would be satisfied with that. Why is the doctor so important that my whole command has to find him?"

Dewey let out an irritated sigh, seeing to his brother's point. Small details couldn't hurt, at least.

"Since you insist on being nosy, I will indulge with just a little bit of information. But, you will keep this to yourself. Both of you." The two officers leaned in with interest. "With his technology, Franz Deckard will be helping us with ending the war. Permanently."

"Is he working on some kind of weapon, then?" Chertov asked.

"Indeed. All the more reason why he must not be harmed under any circumstances. He is very vital in crushing our enemies."

"Our enemy is Germany," Vladimir stated, "and they are practically crushed already. What other enemies do we have?"

"Come on, comrade Major," Chertov interjected, "you can't be serious. Don't you think the British and Americans will be after us next?"

Vladimir glared at Chertov out of the corner of his eye.

"They are our allies. They've been invaluable in battling the fascist Reich. The Americans are not—"

"Major, hold your tongue," Dewey demanded callously. "I believe I was clear on this matter with you before. Our alliance with the West was not destined to last long. Who is to say they will not double cross us when our guards are down? As far as I am concerned, they have all outlived their usefulness."

Vladimir curled his gloved hands into fists. It was not the first time he had heard this line of thinking from him, and it was not something about which he had any luck in swaying Dewey. Dewey continued on, detailing what support they would have, and the best way to approach the laboratory. Off to the side, the cameraman kept rolling.

The briefing ended and all officers saluted. Vladimir left together with the company commanders. Chertov lingered a little more while the cameraman kept rolling, never saying a word.

Chertov glanced at the cameraman with a look of contempt. Something was off about all of this, and Vladimir's lack of conviction was all the more worrying.

"Is something up with the major, comrade Colonel? I know he is close to Peter." Dewey scoffed.

"That stupid little brother of mine? His soft spot for Thurston has made him not have a spine at all. Why?"

"I just wonder if he suspects, is all. If he came to know about our plan, he'd undoubtedly be a hindrance."

"Of course he would. Which is why we must keep him in the dark. But he won't be a problem if worse comes to worse."

Chertov nodded thoughtfully, but wondered what Dewey meant by that. Was he even willing to sacrifice his own family to further his plan? He looked back at the cameraman, who was in the midst of changing the film rolls. His continued presence only set him on edge.

"Sir, if I may ask, who is the shutterbug that's been filming us?"

Dewey took a glance at the filmmakers. He wasn't all too thrilled with them here either. But, there wasn't much else to do about that, sadly.

"Don't worry too much about those people. They are simply here record our endeavors and our mission to retrieve Deckard. They will be out of our hair once the mission is done."

The cameraman approached Chertov and greeted him with a smile and a salute. Chertov only eyed him over, noting the black circular glasses, his prominent nose, and slightly receding hairline.

"Lieutenant Chertov?"

"That's me."

"Alexei Schlosberg, sir. I'm from the Propaganda Ministry. I'm accompanying you on your mission today."

"Let me guess: to get some material for the folks back home?"

"Yes, sir! You don't mind, do you?"

Chertov glanced at Dewey again, who was busy overlooking papers. The colonel would not help him this time. Well, at least it was just a minor annoyance.

"Look, Jew boy, I don't care if you film my men, but when the bullets start flying, just stay out of the way. Understood?"

Schlosberg was slightly crestfallen, but it was understandable. He had to let the soldiers do their work.

"…of course, sir. I'd hate to keep you from doing your job."

"Good to hear that."

Outside the regimental headquarters, Ken-Goh briefed the platoon leaders of First Company, though Petya was noticeably absent. Despite being his best lieutenant, Ken-Goh still chafed at his constant tardiness. And, being his life-long friend and former classmate, he did not have to guess why he would always come running, buttoning up his collar and straightening his officer's cap.

He came jogging to the small crowd of officers, panting heavily. Before catching his breath, he gave the latest variation of the same excuse.

"Sorry, Ken-Goh…I was…held up by Natasha. She and I were discussing…new squad maneuvers."

One of the older lieutenants scoffed and smirked at his newest alibi.

"Oh, I'm sure you and Sergeant Badanova did more than just talk, Lieutenant Sokolov."

Petya blushed a deep crimson as the other officers laughed, completely exasperated. That fool had the nerve to tease him right in front of their company commander? He had to change the subject and fast.

"Anyway, what is our next move?"

Ken-Goh didn't share in the laughter, but by this time, his lateness did not matter much. Soon he and Petya would not be fighting anyone anymore. Smoothing over his mustache, he showed his best friend and trusted second-in-command a small map.

"We are here," he said pointing to a street intersection, "together with the rest of the Eight Guards Army. If we keep pushing northwards, we'll eventually hit the Tiergarten Park, just one block away from the Reichstag." (A/N: Reichstag: the parliament chamber located in Berlin. First opened in 1894 it housed the Diet until 1933 when the building was severely damaged in a fire. During the Battle of Berlin, the Reichstag became one of the central targets of the Red Army for its symbolic significance. Soviet graffiti can still be seen inside the walls of the Reichstag today.)

"Does that mean we will be assaulting the Reichstag, then?"

To finally capture the symbol of the Nazi government, the 'heart of the Reich' as some of the men called it, was the ultimate honor every veteran sought after. If they raised their country's flag from the rooftop, there would be no doubt of Germany's defeat and the Soviet Union's victory.

"Kuznetsov's Third Shock Army will take that front. They are coming down from the north, across the Moltke Bridge. We will be providing support and holding at the Tiergarten."

There was a wave of grumbling that rippled amongst the lieutenants. To not be given the honor to storm the Reichstag was akin to being spat in the face. What had they traipsed across Eastern Europe and endured near-endless suffering for if not to finally revel in ultimate victory?

"What the hell is this 'no Reichstag' bullshit!?" a younger lieutenant spluttered. "We came this far and we're not even going to attack?!"

"That's right! We lost families because of this war!" shouted an enraged female soldier, pounding her fists together. "We deserve to go out there and finish what those fascists started!"

Soon the briefing devolved into a shouting match, and Ken-Goh rubbed his eyes tiredly in frustration. Pride was guiding their thoughts and feeding their words. Of course, he would be a liar were he to say he was not disappointed either, but they still had orders. They still made it to Berlin. That counted for something.

Thankfully, Petya managed to diffuse any more arguments amongst the platoon.

"Listen, comrades, I feel the same anger and disappointment as all of you. I'm not too thrilled with being the support, but, sadly, we don't have a choice. Orders are orders. Sometimes, we need to deal with the unfairness of war. This is one of those times. Just stick to your roles for now. Our time to claim victory will come to pass. But if we really want this war to end, we have to suck it up and do as we are told. We'll get through this hellhole, one way or another. And once all is said and done, you can at least say to your children, 'I was there when the Reich came crashing down.'"

Ken-Goh smiled. Petya had truly come a long way from his training days in the beginning of the war. He had grown from a brash and aggressive recruit to a disciplined and brave commander.

At that, any reservations still held by the lieutenants were wiped away. All that was left was silence, and with it, a quiet acquiescence. The war was almost over. They had been covered with honors in countless battles already. They now stood in the very capital of their enemy. Perhaps it was enough that history would remember them for that.

The lieutenants dispersed and Ken-Goh and Petya hoped to converse one last time before heading north towards the Tiergarten Park, but Vladimir dropped by. He looked slightly unsettled.

"Volodya," Petya asked, "chto nye tak? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Just got our new orders."

"Are we heading to the Tiergarten Park?" Ken-Goh asked, fearing something had changed the entire plan.

"No. There is a high-value target the colonel wants us to retrieve."

He took the map from Ken-Goh's hand, and pointed to the estimated location of the laboratory. It was completely out of the way, and it meant they would not even be afforded a side view of the final assault on the Reichstag. He gave them the directions and hurried on, looking behind him constantly. The two officers and lifelong comrades were left bewildered, somewhat uneasy.

"What's up with him, do you think?" Petya thought aloud, "Did the colonel say something improper?"

"We can ask Volodya later. Let's just find this…Franz Deckard."

With an ounce of disappointment, the officers left to gather their commands. First Company led the way as they joined a short column of T-34 tanks. However, a new face joined the company in the process of leaving. A frail young woman with short black hair and equally dark eyes, somewhat frightened by the rumble of a tank. Petya looked to see she had a special badge on her tunic, one that read "TRANSLATOR."

"You're new, I take it."

"T-the colonel t-told me to f-f-follow you," she said, stammering. "I'm Private Hilda Z-Zimmerman. I'm to help you find the doctor."

"Well, we certainly may need you. Keep close and try not to die, okay?"

Hilda said nothing but only stayed close to the lieutenant, who was soon joined by Natasha. She looked quite irritated at the change of plans.

"We're not going to see the Reichstag, are we?"

"It doesn't look like it." Natasha pouted.

"I wanted to write something on the walls too…" Petya gently pulled his future wife and best sniper close to her.

"No one likes it, but we have a job. Let's just do it, huh?"

Natasha sighed and nodded, resignedly. At least it would not be long until the surrender came. At least, that was what all of them thought as the entire battalion joined in the march towards the laboratory. Down winding streets, and flanking through the narrow alleyways, the battalion cautiously moved, keeping an eye out for Panzerschrecks and Panzerfausts in the windows. They had lost far too many tanks simply from those crude tools.

The laboratory was several blocks away from the Tiergarten Park, and the men had to endure jeers from the rest of the brigade as they moved forward.

"Comrades, the fight is _this_ way!"

"Don't you want to see the heart of the Reich beat for the last time?"

None of the officers paid them any mind, but Vladimir, Ken-Goh and Petya all had to wonder: what was truly the purpose of finding this doctor and what good could he serve to their country?

Sadly, there was no time for such contemplation, for when the first T-34 slowly rolled down the street approaching the laboratory, a tank shell whistled from across. The shell struck the tank in the magazine, and the turret blew off the chassis like a firework. The mood, already tense with the lack of clarity about the mission, only darkened as the various companies scrambled to find cover.

First Company followed Vladimir through a gaping hole in the side of an office building. The 125 grizzled veterans gathered around their dear friend and beloved commander as he peered through his binoculars at the laboratory.

It was an austere, somewhat menacing building, standing five stories tall. Painted all in grey, it reminded him of the building blocks he used to play with as a child. Tanya especially loved those blocks. Some of the windows were broken but others still were boarded up. Cracks appeared in the walls, wrinkles on an old man's face. There did not seem to be any entranceways, which meant they would have to create a new one.

Petya, in the meantime, searched for the enemy that had destroyed a tank. At the end of the street, beneath a camouflaged mesh and hiding in an alleyway was the long barrel of an 88 millimeter gun. He hurried pulled the radio operator to him and relayed what he found.

"Elephant four, this is Bear five. Look 90 degrees to your right, 500 meters, over!"

" _I see him, it's a goddamned Tiger! Mikhailovich, load smoke!"_

A T-34/85 rotated its turret a full 90 degrees to the right, and fired. A curtain of smoke enveloped the Tiger as the remainder of the column ascertained what to do now. The men and women of First Company, in the meantime, anxiously debated what to do now. They could not risk running across the open street and draw fire from the Tiger, but they could not sit back either.

"We have to assault the lab!" Natasha called out. "We need to get past that Tiger."

"Unless the earth swallows him whole," Vladimir retorted, still peering through his binoculars, "he's our problem."

Some of the soldiers grumbled but it was cut short by another loud report of a cannon. Another T-34 flung smoke in front of the Tiger before quickly moving to sidestep and flank it. A Tiger was all but impervious to fire from the front, and one shot from its massive gun was lethal. Petya heard the radio chatter of the tank column as they maneuvered, and Ken-Goh only viewed the building with trepidation.

" _Churkin, flank left! LEFT! Puskova, cross him! Flank right!"_

" _Copy. Right stick, right stick!"_

" _Danilov, keep moving forward. We need to distract him until the others get into position."_

The T-34/76 lurched forward down the street while the remaining two flanked around, determined to destroy the tank before it caused more damage. Natasha looked up at the laboratory, and spotted a metal tube sticking out of one of the higher windows. It tracked the T-34 like a mongoose stalking a serpent. Gasping in fear, she raised her rifle and peered through her scope.

"PANZERSCHRECK!"

A few crucial seconds were consumed lining up the shot, and a trigger was quickly pulled. Natasha only prayed her aim could be true even on a quick draw.

CRACK!

A gout of blood spurted from the window and the Panzerschreck discharged into the air, leaving a white contrail. The sniper heaved a great sigh of relief as she cycled the bolt and the tank continued unhindered. A shell ricocheted off the armor and landed near a bookstore, throwing plaster and dust everywhere. The radio once again erupted in chatter.

" _Dammit, he's spotted me! Puskova, Churkin, report!"_

" _We're in position, sir."_

" _FIRE!"_

A shot came from the T-34/85 behind the laboratory, and hit the Tiger in its side armor, leaving a large perforation and smoke. As the Tiger traversed its turret, the front T-34/76 lined up in kind, determined to save its comrades.

" _Mikhailovich, shoot that asshole! He's aiming for Anya!"_

" _FIRE!"_

Another shot, this time landing on the turret. That got the Tiger's attention, and bought enough time for one last kill shot to be landed from the right, cutting through the side armor yet again. The engine was now ablaze in fire and smoke and the crew bailed out in a panic.

With the Tiger gone, the way was clear for the infantry to storm the laboratory, but there was no viable way in. There had to be a means of entering! Vladimir soon got an idea.

"Alexei, radio the tank. We need to make a hole in the wall to enter."

"Yes, sir. Elephant four, this is Bear three. We need you to fire on the wall of the laboratory, over."

" _Roger, Bear three. Standby to exploit, over."_

Ken-Goh ordered the company to fix bayonets and prepare to charge. They would have to run a gauntlet of at least 50 meters of open street before reaching the laboratory. Petya also ordered some of his comrades to change weapons. Long-range rifles would do little good in short-distance combat.

"Natasha, grab that shotgun off the table. Anatole, leave the DP here, and pick up that MP40. We will be killing at close quarters, comrades."

As the soldiers changed out their weapons and steeled themselves for the run of their lives, the T-34's turret slowly rotated to face the laboratory. Aiming at the ground floor, the gun spoke with a roar, and a high explosive round blasted in a mixture of orange and black smoke.

Ken-Goh blew his whistle, and the entire company emerged from the ruins, speaking in one, un-individuated roar.

"URRRRAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

They emerged like a crest over the horizon and surged forward like a tidal wave, streaming across the open street. The T-34 provided some cover fire as Vladimir watched his men, many of whom had been his friends and classmates in prior years. His heart stirred in a mixture of awe and dread. Awe that they had all survived the horrors of war to make it this far. Dread at what they were about to uncover in that giant grey block.

First Company gathered around the blast hole, and Ken-Goh looked back across the street. Some men lay dead from machine gun fire, undoubtedly perched on the upper floors. To find this doctor, they would need to stay sharp and stay alive. Luckily for him, another company joined them at the blast hole. Captain Pavlenko, flanked by his subordinate Chertov, eyed him expectantly for a plan.

"If we want to find this doctor fast," Ken-Goh suggested, "we should split up."

"I'll take my company and scour the ground floor."

"In that case, the upper floor is mine." Ken-Goh looked back to the black-haired translator, shaking slightly in fear as the battle raged on around her. "Hilda, you're with us."

Chertov suddenly voiced his reservations.

"Wait, if you're taking the Kraut translator, who does that leave us with?"

The Jewish cameraman, Schlosberg, spoke up at this moment from behind.

"I speak a little German, sir. I will help you identify the doctor." Chertov scoffed.

"So you get the actual German, while I get the Jew boy shutterbug. Great…"

"Now's not the time to get picky, Chertov," Captain Pavlenko reminded his subordinate, "We need to push onward."

Ken-Goh reloaded his weapon and gestured towards two route ways.

"It doesn't matter much to me, but pick a route and I'll meet you lot halfway."

Pavlenko waved his hand and the whole company followed into the dark corridors of the ground floor. Ken-Goh's company found a stairwell and migrated upwards to the second floor. Almost immediately, Pavlenko and Chertov's men ran into unexpectedly fierce resistance.

Hospital beds and tables were overturned to form barricades, with file cabinets ransacked and cleaned out of any valuable documents. It seemed the Germans were keen on keeping the Soviets out of this laboratory, but just what were they hiding?

Regardless of the alarming damage done in the facility, the group pushed onward, one slow, cautious step at a time. They dealt with much worse days ago. They knew they were to be prepared and yet, seeing more and more collateral damage was more worrying than encouraging.

Schlosberg kept abreast of the advance, but Chertov stopped him, staring right into the lens of his camera as it kept rolling.

"Listen Jew boy, I don't want the colonel to give me shit if something happens to you. Remember what I said: keep in the back, and stay out of the fucking way."

Schlosberg said nothing, but only shouldered his camera and stood off to the side as the platoon inched cautiously forward, keeping their eyes open for enemies hiding in the shadows. The ward had bad lighting as it kept flickering with every artillery shell that landed outside. However, it was enough to capture the imagery of many soldiers slowly traipsing ahead.

The ward was cleared, with no enemies encountered. But the next rooms held horrors that would make even the most grizzled veteran shudder.

Pavlenko ordered his two platoons to separate and clear out the next rooms. He stuck with Chertov as his men hung a right and proceeded further down a hallway into what looked like a patient's room. Was this a lab or an asylum? Something seemed off about the room as there was only a single lamp hanging from the ceiling…to which a generator was nailed in. Several wires connected the generator to a strange humanoid-looking figure lying prone on a hospital bed.

The soldiers gathered around the bed to examine the figure as Chertov called Schlosberg from out of the hall.

"Hey, camera with legs! You might want to see this."

Schlosberg wasted no time in rushing into the room to obtain visual contact. However, he wasn't expecting to see what appeared to be like a human experiment gracing the scene before him.

"Jesus…" Schlosberg managed as he aimed his camera at the gruesome, frightful sight.

A rain of sparks fell from the generator as Karataev slowly approached the figure. He noticed, together with his comrades, that the wires were all connected to the figure's head, like a giant circuit board. Alekseev almost didn't have the strength to stand, he was so gripped with fear.

Karataev reached out an apprehensive hand as the figure lay motionless. Was this… _thing_ even alive? A sergeant tried to dissuade Karataev from tampering with something unknown.

"Step back. Don't touch it!"

Karataev's finger was not a hair's distance from the skin when the figure went into a spasm following another shower of sparks. It shook uncontrollably as its… _claws_ gripped the side of the bed, struggling to stand up. Karataev stumbled back as he raised his PPSh-41 at the figure. No one fired, as the men were too awestruck to do much of anything except watch the figure slowly rise.

"What the hell do we do?" asked a frightened young soldier.

"Shut up and stand still, that's what," Chertov hissed, aiming his revolver towards the humanoid creature should it try to leave the bed.

After a few moments of daunting silence and suspense, the restrained figure slumped down on the bed.

It looked to be a male, although it was impossible to tell for sure. The face was irrevocably scarred, and resembled a burnt match more than an actual human head. One hand exhibited metallic claws for fingers while the other arm had a long knife grafted to it. It made no attempt to speak, but everyone around could hear a low, animalistic, vaguely masculine growl.

Pavlenko, who came beside Chertov with his TT-33 pistol at the ready, was left stunned at the sight.

"Fucking hell…and I thought the shit I saw in Auschwitz was revolting…"

The figure stood up from the bed, and raised one hand in as best a Nazi salute it could manage. A black swastika was branded on its frail torso, like an animal's. Then, it reached out its claws, searching around for whoever had awoken it. Alekseev leveled his bayoneted rifle at its chest as it inched towards him, but the figure soon turned around, heading towards Karataev. He slowly backed up until he was against the wall. No one dared fire, as they were too afraid of what it might do in retaliation.

"Hey, freak show!" Pavlenko hailed the creature. "Can you hear me?"

"It seems to be blind, sir," Chertov cut in. "I don't think it can see us."

The creature swung around and inched towards Pavlenko, who made no attempt to back away. He only kept his pistol ready as it reached out towards his face. Pavlenko slowly gripped the creature's wrist with his free hand as he interrogated it.

"What the hell are you?" A low snarl in response. "Can you hear me?" A curling of fingers. "Let's put you out of your mis—AGGHCK!"

Suddenly the creature's knife hand thrust forward and penetrated the captain's chest. The growl grew louder as Pavlenko groaned in surprise and pain. Chertov, utterly shocked, opened fire on the creature, hitting its back.

"COMRADE CAPTAIN!"

Now the creature grew agitated as it lunged at Chertov, who fell onto his backside, firing repeatedly. No matter how many rounds connected, it didn't retard its movement in the slightest.

"SHOOT IT, YOU IDIOTS!"

Reality setting in at last, the entire platoon raised their guns towards the deranged beast. They opened fire without any further hesitation, their bullets hailing down on the creature like the downpour of heavy rain. Each bullet penetrated the inhuman flesh as blood was splattered within the patient room.

In agony, wonder, and sorrow, the creature's moans and screams escaped its lips as it slowly collapsed upon the cold floor, resting for good.

Schlosberg captured the whole thing on camera, standing safely in a corner. However, he stopped filming when he seen Pavlenko down on the floor, bleeding out. The Jewish cameraman ran to his side, trying to nurse the wound with one of his handkerchiefs.

"Hey, we need a medic over here!"

Chertov wiped the sweat from his brow as he came beside his commander, who only looked up to him like a scared puppy. His lips quivered, but he soon collected himself as he knelt down.

"Captain, just look at me. Don't move..."

He turned his eyes to Karataev and Alekseev, who were both aghast in shock and horror at the monstrosity they just witnessed.

"What the fuck's the matter with you?! Get the goddamn medic!"

"Yes, sir! Right away!" Karataev saluted before running off to find the closest medic.

Two other men helped the wounded captain, lifting him by the hands and legs and running briskly out of the room.

"Damn it…" Chertov said under his breath, removing his cap and scratching his ruffled his dark hair.

As much as pride prevented him to admit certain things, he was quite spooked by that _thing_. Could that freak of nature really be an example of what this Deckard fellow was capable of?

Alekseev fumbled with the bolt of his rifle as he hesitantly asked his superior,

"What in the hell was that thing, sir?"

"I'm not really sure, Alekseev. Honestly, I don't think I want to know."

"Comrade lieutenant, we are on our own now from here. What are your orders?"

Chertov thought long and hard. Seeing that creature gave him a fright, but as much as he wanted to leave, they still had a man to find. Whoever this doctor is had to be worth something if the colonel demanded his capture.

"We have to keep moving. I don't think Colonel Koslov would like it if we came back empty handed. I just hope this doctor is worth all the trouble..."

He motioned for the rest of the platoon to follow him out of the room and into the longer hall. Schlosberg quickly gathered his film reels and followed the soldiers as they moved forward. However, Chertov called the radio operator forward and sent a message.

"Bear one, this is Bear four. We're sending out wounded, so please hold your fire. Repeat: hold your fire. Captain Pavlenko has been wounded, and I am assuming command. Bear four out."

The rest of Pavlenko's men followed the lieutenant as they entered further into uncharted territory. Now there really was no turning back as they group of soldiers made their way into the laboratory.

With each step down the corridor towards the next area, the platoon became more apprehensive. If that failed human experiment was housed here, what else could be waiting for them? And what value was this doctor if he produced abominations like that?

"Did you see that thing's head?" asked a frightened female soldier. "It looked like a used cigarette!"

"Was that even human?" asked another. "At least the bodies we found in Auschwitz were people."

Chertov found a whitewash door at the end of the corridor, slightly ajar. However, the window was blacked out and it was impossible to see what was on the other side. He quieted everyone down as he peeked through the crack.

It appeared to be a reception room, complete with a desk and overturned rows of chairs. But besides the general setup of the room it was too dark to see much of anything. He could not afford to go in blind, and could not assume the room was empty.

"Someone toss a grenade in there," he hissed quietly.

Alekseev volunteered as he searched through his pocket for the small explosive. He gestured for everyone to stand back as he gently removed the pin and tossed it aside. What was to be expected turned out to be the opposite, however. The boom sound was heard but nothing seemed to have been there.

No screams of pain. No anything. Just silence.

Chertov smirked, glad to know they could still continue without any more problems. The team moved onward until one male soldier stumbled on a loose tile, which set off a series of rapid beeps for all to hear.

"BOOBY TRAP! GET DOWN!"

However, the call came too late, and five men were lost in a loud explosion. Smoke permeated the room and choked all of their lungs as the platoon struggled to gain its bearings. Then, from all sides came a chorus of shrill yells and rapid gunfire.

Through the smoke, Chertov saw rapidly advancing silhouettes. More Hitler Youths and Volkssturm employing an ambush.

"Fire! FIRE!"

He raised his revolver and shot one dark shadow through the chest, which sent him down with a painful groan. Alekseev hurriedly fired his Mosin-Nagant at another, but it was incredibly difficult to land an accurate shot when the target was moving so fast and so close. Soon, a Hitler Youth of 17 was on the recruit, and they engaged in a tussle. Armed with an Sturmgewehr-44 far too big for him, the youngster tried shoving Alekseev to the floor. However, he stomped his boot on his enemy and thrust him back. Just enough to level his rifle and stab him in the heart with his bayonet.

Schlosberg, staying behind in the corridor, shot through the crack of the doorway and captured every second of combat, and every ounce of blood spilled onto the tiled floors. The laboratory now resembled an abattoir, with scenes of death and violence playing out before the camera lens.

The ambush raged on as the lives of three more veterans were claimed by the relentless onslaught. Chertov was forced to dodge in cover, lest he became the next causality. However, as he hid behind a small table formerly used for magazines, he found himself outflanked by another Hitler Youth, aiming a Walther P-38 pistol straight at his head. Chertov thought for sure he was dead, but before the little boy could fire, his face was ripped by bullets from behind the door.

He looked in shock to find Karataev, who had just rejoined the platoon, the muzzle of his submachine gun smoking like a pipe. He tried to step in, but a stick grenade rolled at his feet, forcing him to slam the door and save himself and Schlosberg.

"Grenade! Get to cover!"

The grenade sent fragments flying in all directions upon detonation, with one fragment lodging itself in Chertov's shoulder. He fell onto his side and winced, shooting another Hitler Youth that emerged from behind the reception desk. The ambush fizzled out as the Soviets were able to gain their bearings and fight back, killing the remaining youths as they scrambled out of the room. A female soldier produced some bandages for Chertov's arm, wrapping it tightly enough for the wound to stop bleeding.

The guns fell silent, and Alekseev saw the futility of proceeding further.

"If we head to a shortcut somewhere, we can still meet up with First Company. We'll have a better advantage if we fight with them!" Alekseev reasoned.

Chertov was about to respond when one of the remaining sergeants found a few stragglers behind the reception desk.

"Comrade Lieutenant, there are some here who want to surrender."

Intrigued, Chertov stood up and looked over the edge of the desk. Hiding in a corner was an older man with glasses. He wore a dark coat with a Volkssturm armband and a steel helmet. Next to him a frightened child in a Hitler Youth uniform clung to his arm, covered in blood and grime. In another corner was a young woman in her 20s who looked to be a nurse. Her white blouse and dress were stained red, torn in several places from bullets and grenade shrapnel.

Chertov ignored whatever suffering they may have been in and cut straight to the point.

"Where's the doctor?"

"...W-was?" the old man stuttered.

"Doctor Deckard! Where is he!?"

The old man stumbled over his words, obviously confused. Schlosberg stepped in and asked in what German he knew.

"W-warum wollen Sie den Doktor zu sehen?" the old man asked. (A/N: Why do you want to see the doctor?)

Schlosberg relayed the translation, and Chertov grew impatient. He aimed his pistol straight at the elderly man's forehead.

"I don't have time for your shit, Fritz! Tell me where he is or you die right now!"

Again, the old man responded in his native tongue.

"He says his office is on the fourth floor," Schlosberg explained. "There are a few guards watching it, though."

"Fourth floor…First Company is probably there by now. We should radio them and then make our way up."

"What about these people?"

Chertov looked back at the trio with disinterest. All of them looked like they had seen indescribable terrors. The boy clung to the older man in fear as his entire body shook. The young nurse struggled to stand up, and the lieutenant was apprehensive. They had to complete their mission as soon as possible. No way in hell could he let Petya and the American's friends steal the glory. However, they couldn't completely stumble around in the dark, either.

"That old man must know the way around the lab. We'll follow him."

"What about the boy and the woman, sir?" Schlosberg asked.

"We can't afford to drag everyone with us," Chertov said almost immediately. "Tell them to get out the way we came in."

Schlosberg gulped, and relayed the lieutenant's instructions while Chertov gave his new orders.

"Comrades, gather your weapons and ammo. We're moving upstairs to the doctor's office." Then he turned to the old man. "And you, Fritz, you're going to lead us there. Which way?"

»»»»»

Meanwhile, First Company made it to the fourth floor of the laboratory. The sights they had seen were not as expected. What they had discovered was a dark experimental facility, with the celling lights flickering with every artillery shell. Six operating tables were lined up against a wall, with six emaciated and naked bodies strapped by leather bands at their wrists and ankles.

Judging from the bodies alone, they all appeared to be women ranging from late teens to mid-20s. Their faces were obscured with metal masks, through which a single intravenous therapy tube ran. Any liquid or medication had long since been emptied, rendering whatever experiment this was a failure.

Petya and his group were lost in shock and anxiety over what they were witnessing. Even the hardened Anatole was at a complete loss for words. Natasha, the usually calm and collected sniper of First Company, had one of her hands clinging to her commander and future husband's instinctively.

"Petya, what have we gotten ourselves into? Is all of this Deckard's work?"

The lieutenant couldn't really give out an answer to Natasha, his eyes wondering at the increasingly foreboding place for any surprise attacks.

"Maybe we're going in over our heads here…"

"If it were me," Anatole said, "I'd have aborted this mission a long time ago. Whoever this doctor is, he's obviously insane."

"What the hell is the major thinking recruiting a twisted freak to our cause?" asked a female veteran.

"After this, we all need a damn long vacation," complained another male submachine gunner.

"Something tells me it's not Volodya who wanted this," Dmitri thought aloud. "He seemed awfully frightened by the thought of it when he explained it to you. Isn't that right, Petya?"

The lieutenant nodded fearfully.

"There's something else going on here, comrades…"

At that moment, the radio operator's kit buzzed with static and a garbled message. The young boy struggled to take the receiver, and turned up the volume loud enough for all to hear.

" _Bear four calling Bear three. We have a possible location of the doctor. His office is on the fourth floor. I repeat: his office is on the fourth floor. Do you copy? Over."_

Petya recognized the voice as Chertov's. He, together with his company, should be down on the bottom floor. How did they ascertain the location so quickly? He rushed to the receiver.

"Bear three responding. Chertov, you said the doctor is on our floor. How'd you figure that out? Over."

" _Found an old fascist who used to work here. I'm bringing him with me. Standby; we're coming to you. Out."_

"We'll be waiting, then. Out," Petya replied simply and gave the speaker back to his younger friend.

"So, now what?" Dmitri inquired. Petya sighed.

"We wait here. To be honest, I'm in no rush to see what other horrors lie beyond this facility."

"This is a fucking nightmare," Anatole thought as he checked his MP40. "Auschwitz was nothing compared to this."

"Do we even know if the doctor is alive?" Natasha asked no one in particular. "For all we know, he could have escaped or gotten killed."

"We can't afford to assume, Natasha," Petya said. "And I don't think the colonel would like it if we came back without a good explanation."

Several minutes passed as the platoon staked out in the operating facility, trying their best not to wretch from the heavy smell of blood and rotting flesh. A back door opened leading to a stairwell, and in stepped Chertov, along with what remained of his platoon.

"Well, you guys were quite busy," Anatole wryly commented. "What the hell happened?"

Chertov wiped his brow, inadvertently smearing extra blood on his face. The young lieutenant, for the first time in their years of knowing him, was visibly shaken.

"Pavlenko's been wounded, so I'm in charge of Second Company now. Some… _thing_ attacked him, and almost killed me, too. But we found some good information about where the doctor might be."

Alekseev marched out the old man who looked around in fear. A surprise attack seemed imminent at any moment. Petya's new translator Hilda questioned him in German, and brought everyone up to speed.

"H-he says he used to work here before the Russians came. T-the doctor's office is on this floor, so he might still be in there."

Anatole stood up, eager for an answer to shed light on the madness they had seen.

"We lost a couple rookies to some monster, too. Ask Fritz what he knows about that."

Another brief in conversation in German revealed the horror.

"They're…some of the doctor's experiments. They didn't turn out as well as he hoped."

"Obviously," Chertov muttered in contempt. "Anyway, I suggest we start looking for this doctor before things go to shit. We'll follow the old man."

However, none of them didn't have a chance to move as a small ball was dropped down from a hole in the ceiling. The second it dropped on the cold floor, the strange container exploded, releasing white smoke everywhere.

"What was that?!" Petya shouted in confusion.

"A smoke bomb! Everyone, stay togeth—!"

Anatole's sentence was cut off by the speed of a bullet flying towards his shoulder. The impact pierced with perfect aim as the tough veteran of four years felt the hot crimson liquid escape his wound. Just then, a Hitler Youth, no older than 15, suddenly showed up and slammed his rifle butt across Anatole's face, rendering him unconscious and on the floor, defenseless. When the Nazi Youth was ready to finish the job, Petya rushed in through the white smoke and stabbed the child soldier through the spine and heart, killing him.

"Anatole is down!" Petya shouted frantically, protecting his wounded longtime friend. "Somebody get him out of here, NOW!"

Dmitri wasted no time in grabbing Anatole by the shoulders and dragging him out of violent madness. He did not pay any mind to the cacophony of gunfire as SS troopers and Hitler Youths swarmed the room. Instead he propped his friend and comrade against a whitewash wall, trying to wake him up.

Chertov shot an SS trooper armed with an MP40 who attempted to sneak up on the two men, and soon his command joined the fray. Dmitri only tried to wake up Anatole, as the firefight rolled on.

Natasha likewise guarded her friends when a Hitler Youth of only 14 charged forward with a Luger pistol. The shotgun she acquired before moving in proved deadly, as a single round blasted through the child's torso like a rain of daggers. Another round nearly took off an SS trooper's face before she had to reload.

The firefight lasted only a few minutes, but by the time it was over, Petya and Chertov's respective commands had been whittled away.

"Jesus," Karataev cursed as the smoke cleared. "Those bastards came out of nowhere!"

Chertov stepped into the center of the facility and ordered everyone up and out.

"It's imperative we find this doctor and get the hell out of here. We need to move, right now."

Dmitri immediately stood up and protested.

"And leave Tolya here for those animals? Fuck no! We have get him help."

"We cannot stay here, kid! They're going to come back any minute, and we need to be gone."

Schlosberg, still carrying his camera, offered an opinion.

"Sir, we could at least leave a detail here to—"

"SHUT UP, JEW BOY!" Chertov screeched. "You're here to make pretty pictures; not give orders! Now, if you don't want to die here, we need to go!"

Before the arguments could grow ablaze with heated emotion, there was a groan of pain in Dmitri's direction.

"Jesus fuck…everybody shut up…" Anatole complained as he slowly woke up. "Can't a guy like me get some sleep around here…?" Dmitri helped his rugged friend sit up.

"Tolya! Oh, thank god! How is your shoulder?"

"What do you think? It burns like hell…"

Petya came beside him and inspected the wound. Anatole barely had the strength to lift his arm, as the bullet penetrated into the flesh. At that moment, a red-haired female medic joined the group and examined the veteran's shoulder.

"Mischa," Petya asked, "can he still fight?"

"He can, but I wouldn't recommend it. This is going to need some stitches."

"Goddammit," Anatole groaned. "I get wounded just at the very last battle…and looking for some psycho, too…"

Mischa stood up, looking very worried.

"I can close the wound, but it needs to be properly treated. If he stays here, it could get infected."

"We can't afford to stay here!" Chertov protested. "We're wasting time."

"Sir," Dmitri offered, "let me stay here and guard them. You all can go on."

With no other options laid out for them, Petya agreed.

"Alright, stay put with Tolya. I'm counting on you to keep him safe, both of you."

"This is my profession, sir," Mischa remarked. "I'd fail miserably if that wasn't the case."

Petya nodded and turned to his comrades.

"Let's move out, people! Double time!"

The rest of the company soon moved out, following the old man who pointed them to a set of double doors, leading into a hallway. Petya looked back one last time to Dmitri and Anatole, just as Mischa opened her aid kit.

The hallways, covered in dirtied whitewash and smeared with blood, dirt and human excrement, provided a horrifyingly chilling setting as they slowly walked forward. They listened to the old man as he led the way, followed closely by Hilda, frightened that another attack could come. These Germans were obviously desperate to keep the doctor out of enemy hands.

Oddly enough, there were no further surprises in store for them as they were finally at the large double doors, where Doctor Deckard supposedly resided.

"The doctor is in there?" Chertov asked.

The old man nodded. For Petya, that was enough. Anything to put an end to this insanity.

He and Natasha forced open the doors, and found the room a shambles. The desk had been completely robbed of any files or meaningful documents. Sprawled along the floor were several SS officers, bleeding out from bullet wounds to the head and chest. The only living man sat in a wooden chair.

He was an old, distinguished looking gentleman, easily in his mid-50s. His bald head and wrinkled face gave the impression of an aging pumpkin. Behind a pair of spectacles, two sunken brown eyes looked around, and found a pair of Russian soldiers, aiming their guns straight at him. In his hand, a smoking Luger with the magazine empty.

The old man frowned at both Petya and Natasha.

"Lower those guns, Bolshevik dogs!" He leaned back, and smiled somewhat smugly. "I know why you've come. You will take me to Colonel Koslov."

"We are not lowering anything!" Natasha sharply remarked. "You will confirm that you are the Doctor we have been searching for through this hellhole or get a bullet between the eyes!"

"Are you Doctor Franz Deckard?" Petya asked.

The smile didn't leave the doctor's face as he looked around, as if knowing that nothing was going to save him. Not that he needed to be saved from anything, anyway.

"I am."

"Then come with us, now."

With those simple words, the doctor rose and was escorted out of the office. The mission was complete as well as the trip through the chillingly haunting laboratory.

»»»»»

Outside, Soviet troops assessed the damage. The assault resulted in heavy casualties, with Ken-Goh's First Company losing over 40 percent of its strength, and Pavlenko's Second Company losing 50 percent. Chertov's platoon had been effectively mauled, with less than a dozen survivors emerging from the destroyed laboratory. For those who remained, their minds were scarred by what they had seen. Indescribable horrors lay in that facility, better to never see the light of day.

Petya and Natasha sat on the sidewalk, sharing a canteen and cleaning their faces.

"If we make it back home…" Petya started, before trailing off, staring at the ruined cityscape.

Natasha wiped excess sweat from her grimy face and looked over her shoulder at him. Her comrade. Her commander. Her lover and fiancé.

"What is it, moi lyubov?"

"…I hope no one asks about how Berlin was." Natasha chuckled quietly.

"I think everyone will be too happy to have us back to ask about war stories."

"After this mission, do you think we will go home?"

"We sure as hell better. We deserve a week's furlough after that madness."

Across the street, the infamous Doctor Deckard walked with Colonel Dewey Koslov. They appeared to enjoy the other's company, and even laughed at shared jokes as they spoke. Seeing that architect of insanity made both exhausted soldiers tense, as if another attack was coming. What on earth did the colonel want with a cruel madman like this doctor?

"Deckard and the colonel are talking like old friends," Natasha whispered fearfully, gripping Petya's hand. "I don't like this, Petya."  
"Nor I, Natasha. Stay on your guard…"

In the meantime, Dewey kept pressing Deckard for more information. Information about a special experiment.

"Herr Doctor, tell me more about your involvement in the _Uranprojekt_."

"I was brought on the project as an assistant researcher in '43. My specialty had been in nuclear physics, but progress had always been rather slow."  
"The reason being?" The doctor pursed his lips and readjusted his spectacles.

"As the war grew worse, the Nazi Party cared more about bodies at the front than any furthering of research."

"Did you have to serve?"  
"No, but my supervisors were. I continued on in research, but always the project lacked funding and manpower."

The doctor stopped and gazed back at the laboratory, a smoldering grey block in the smoldering ruins of a smoldering Reich.

"Somehow," he said forlornly, "I did manage to make a breakthrough. When I attempted to request an opportunity to test, it was too late. The Russians were already in Berlin, and we had to leave the city."  
"But you're still here."

"I did not want to leave without my research. The SS had other plans, however. I've lost so much work…"

Dewey smiled and gently squeezed the elderly doctor's shoulder.

"Do not fret so much, Herr Doctor. There may yet be a need for your research…"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed the Battle of Berlin chapters. We are about to start the main story, but there is a small respite to be had, a moment of calm before the big storm. Holland and Talho will be featured heavily in this last volume, as I must confess, I've come to enjoy writing their relationship more than Renton and Eureka's, as it provides a mature contrast. Things are going to get tougher for everyone and for them especially, so enjoy this moment before the shit hits the fan, so to speak.**

 **Be sure to leave a review!**

* * *

 **Chapter Six**

 **May 2** **nd** **, 1945**

 **Bellforest, California**

The time since Holland's induction into the militia was a time of healing for the Russian couple. Both he and Talho had changed mentally and emotionally after they had returned home, but simultaneously, they were still the same people in some regard. The former partisan was more considerate and caring towards his lover's feelings. Talho had become more serious and somewhat stoic, if only in the workplace. It was as clear as day that she was still picking up the pieces after losing most of her comrades in Paris.

Their once tumultuous relationship had blossomed even stronger than before, now that they were working together. However, since they had bigger positions in the militia, chances of days off had been sparse. Every night, the lovers would go home dead tired and collapse in their beds, skipping dinner and spending time with friends and each other. They were not as intimate as they were before, only sharing chaste kisses and warm embraces in private. The last time they had slept together was on Christmas Eve. It seemed like the world was once again conspiring to separate the two of them.

Today was a different case.

Talho and Holland were dismissed early for a job well done at city patrolling. And, by a miracle of sort, they received good news. The pair thought they were hearing a different language when Colonel Volkov granted them an early dismissal off from patrols and training drills. Not wanting to waste such a privilege, the second lieutenant and sergeant thanked their superior and left the office.

As the couple walked together to Talho's apartment, the hazel eyed girl began to wonder about something that was in the back of her mind; where will she be after the war's end?

"Say, Holland," she asked hesitantly, shouldering her rifle, "what do you see yourself doing after the war is over?"

Her superior turned his attention to his girlfriend, titling his head in confusion.

"Shto shto? Why do you want to know?"

The sergeant eyed her boots as they dragged along the pavement.

"I was just thinking that…after what happened in Normandy...after losing Denisov and the others, I was completely lost for a while. I didn't want to be a part of the militia anymore, and wanted to walk away from the fighting. Back then, I was still coping with what happened. But, now..."

"You're thinking about quitting in the future?" Holland asked. Talho solemnly nodded.

"The war will end soon, so I don't really see myself staying in the militia long-term. My parents had set this all up for me just to keep me active and motivated. They didn't have any plans for my future, but I do. I plan to just settle down and live quietly. Get away from this town. Do you know what I mean?"

The former partisan smiled at the hazel eyed girl's new found life goals, comprehending where she was coming from. His future brother-in-law shared the same ideal dream.

"Trust me, Talho, I know all too well. Renton has told me the same thing. He wants to live in peace as well, but it's not as easy as that. Until we get a surrender in writing from Germany and Japan, the war will continue on, unfortunately."

They were now finally at the precise door to the apartment.

"But, I'm glad to see that you are starting to break out of that funk. I was a little worried for a while."

Talho's emotionless expression changed to that of disbelief. She chuckled lightly as she playfully nudged her lover in the shoulder.

"The fearless Holland Novikov, worried? That's mighty rare!"

"Oh, come on. I can feel a thing or two, just like anyone else."

The short haired girl smirked, amused.

"I see. And how do you feel about me?"

"You should know by now, Talho."

"I'd rather you prove it."

Holland smiled and took hold of the girl's hand. However, that was followed by a pull into a tight embrace. As Holland kissed Talho with all the passion he could muster, she blushed in delight and moaned into the lip lock. Within each kiss, their bodies drew closer together as the lad pinned his woman against the door. A light pressure grew in his center as the sergeant gripped the belt around his waist.

"How long has it been since we touched like this?" Talho asked friskily.

"Far too long."  
"My thoughts exactly."

"Open that door." Holland commanded, growling huskily.

"As you say, Lieutenant."

The hazel eyed girl broke the kiss momentarily to grab her keys and unlock the door to her apartment. But, as soon as she placed the key inside the hole, something was amiss.

"What the hell…?!" she blurted out in confusion.

"Something wrong?"

"This door is supposed to be locked!" Talho whispered. "Someone broke in and they might still be in here!"

"A burglar?"  
"I don't know, but I'm not taking chances! Let's go!"

Without hesitation, the couple burst through the door, raising their guns high as they searched for the intruders. However, who they had discovered, sitting at the kitchen table, were far from burglars. One was a woman in her mid-40s. with short brown hair and brown eyes wearing a royal violet dress. The other was a tall, mustachioed man with equally dark hair and hazel eyes, exactly the same as Talho's. He was also smartly dressed; a green sweater vest over a white shirt, dark green slacks, and a bright red tie strapped around his collar. The woman stood up, smiling with an air of familiarity.

"Talho, sunshine! Is that you, my dear?" she said in delight.

"Well, look who finally showed up here!" the man said, grinning from ear to ear.

It didn't take long for the bewildered girl to recognize who these people were.

"M-Mother? Father?"

Suddenly, the mother swooped in and trapped Talho in a near bone-crushing hug. Holland wasn't sure whether to smile at the reunion or be amazed by the utter strength of the older woman.

"My dearest and only daughter! It's been far too long since we saw each other!"

"It's only been two years, Mother…" Talho muttered, somewhat embarrassed.

"All the same!"

The father approached his daughter, noticing her physical appearance.

"You've certainly grown up, sunshine. And you shed some weight, too. I see the militia has been keeping you in good shape!"

"Father!" Talho chided, blushing.

The father shrugged causally.

"What? It's true. You are gaining some muscles just like your old man."

Red faced out of mild embarrassment, Talho wiggled her way out of her mother's bear hug. Gathering her thoughts, the short haired girl sighed with irritation. She was glad to see her parents, but, truth be told, she was upset that they didn't contact her ahead of time. At least she would've been more prepared and made sure her place was decently clean.

"Never mind that. What are you doing here? This is an unexpected visit."

The husband and wife looked at each other in slight confusion at their daughter's negative response.

"We wanted to check up on you and see how you were doing," answered the father. "We are your parents after all."

"That's not the point! You should have called me first! You know I hate surprise visits!"

Talho's mother laughed as she waved off her daughter's protest.

"Oh, sunshine, that's so boring. Where's the fun in catching our girl off guard once in a while?"

Talho thought she felt a vein pop out of her forehead because she was completely agitated.

"For heaven's sake, you two...!"

Suddenly, the trio heard a soft cough from in front of the door. Holland was standing there, with a wry expression on his face. The sergeant had completely forgotten that her superior was standing there the whole time. Talho had everyone sit down at the kitchen table. Once they all did, she made the introductions.

"Holland, these are my parents, Andrei and Milena."

The grey haired Russian teen bowed his head as a greeting.

"Mother, Father, this is Holland Petrovich Novikov. He's my new commanding officer…and my boyfriend."

Andrei and Milena's eyes nearly popped from their sockets.

"Your…boyfriend?!" Milena and Andrei exclaimed loudly.

The militia soldiers were both taken aback by the outburst, and Talho already regretted her choice of words.

"Wait a moment," Andrei said slowly, focusing on Holland's face. "I think I recognize you from the papers. Do you, by any chance, know Renton Ivanovich Daniels?" asked the father.

Intimidated by the older man's suspicious look, Holland was hesitant to answer right away.

"Well, do you or don't you?"

"Y-yes, I do. He is…rather, I should say he _will_ be…my brother-in-law."

"But that would also mean..."

The parents both pointed at the boy in unison.

"You are from the Soviet Union!"

And with that revelation, the unsuspecting lieutenant was bombarded with all manner of questions from the parents. Actually, many of them seemed more like accusations than questions.

"Have you read Karl Marx front to back?"

"Are you a religious man?"  
"Were you ever a member of the Communist Party?"

"You haven't been grooming my daughter to be a socialist, have you?"

"Do you think you are man enough to protect Talho?"

Wanting to spare her lover from the onslaught questioner, the short haired girl criticized her overwhelming parents.

"Hey, that's enough! Can't you see how uncomfortable he is?"

They stopped the onslaught of questioning, but they were utterly disappointed in their daughter's taste in men.

"Oh, Talho," Milena lamented, "I cannot believe you would tramp around with a socialist! I thought I raised you better than this!"

"This is unacceptable," Andrei concurred. "No Bolshevik demagogue is allowed anywhere near my daughter."

Unfazed, Talho remained firm and unyielding. Holland stood up for her when her capabilities were questioned. She was going to return the favor.

"I'm sorry you're disappointed with my tastes, Father, but I'm not sorry for having feelings for Holland."

"You had something good with Joe!" Milena cried melodramatically. "We arranged everything perfectly. And now you throw it away on some…some rabble-rouser?"

"I never liked Joe from the start, Mother!" Talho protested. "There was no spark! He was an arrogant man with nothing going for him!" Andrei scoffed at such claims.

"At least Joe wasn't associated with a group of revolutionary scoundrels. Don't you know that it was people like your boyfriend there that drove us out of Russia in the first place?"

Now Holland scowled, fed up with Talho's parents and their accusations. It was akin to déjà vu, having been subject to suspicion by the militia when they first found him. Just as before, these people saw him as a corrupting influence. A Soviet spy in disguise. An agent provocateur. He pounded his fist against a wall, calling their attention with a loud thump.

The parents looked at the young officer in slight surprise. After a deep inhalation, he unleashed all the pent up resentment from years of suspicion and derision. Now he opened his eyes and a fire was lit in his icy blue gaze.

"Look," he said, not gazing upon them, "I was betrayed by those same people. They're the reason I am even here in this country! I spent weeks on the streets, sleeping in alleys and eating leftovers trying to get here. I thought for a while that that would be my life. That is, until Talho found me. I'm in uniform and in a better place now because of her. I owe everything I have now to her. And…there is no way in hell I am going to give her up because you disagree!"

His hand slid down the wall before hanging limp at his side.

"I love Talho. Plain and simple!"

A moment of silence passed. Holland thought for a moment that the matter was settled, his point made and won. But Milena would not have it, and softly glared at the young officer.

"Lieutenant Novikov, regardless of your feelings for our daughter, we are still her parents. We know what is best for her, and what we say goes. She is far too young to be making decisions on her own."

"Everything she has done now," Andrei added, "she has done because we advised her to, and we expect her to exceed our expectations. Furthermore—"

At her wit's end, Talho stood up and slammed both hands on the wooden table.

"ENOUGH, GODDAMMIT!"

With Holland and the adults looking straight at her with surprised eyes, the sergeant began her long harangue against her mother and father.

"Neither of you know what you are talking about! Holland did what he had to do to support his family. He lived in poverty, unlike us! He didn't have what we had. We were all ignorant and had everything handed to us on a silver platter. We were spoiled, rich fools and we still are!"

Milena, turned off by her daughter's stubbornness, raised her eyebrows and chided her.

"How dare you? Is this really how you show gratitude for your parents?"

The nineteen-year-old sergeant glared at Milena. She had no right to be angry with her, especially now of all times.

"Exactly what the hell have you done for me, lately?! You and Father kicked me out of the house because you thought I was wasting my life away. Neither of you cared about what I did in the militia as long as I was working. You two never ask for my opinion; you just plan whatever you want and expect me to obey. And now you come back to see me after nearly three years? Give me a break!"

Like a lawyer in court, Talho pointed an accusing finger at her stuck up rich parents.

"Do you even know what happened to me in Normandy? I was a part of that, you know! It was my first real taste of battle. At first, I thought it would be some great adventure. Dear God, was I mistaken! For three months, I feared my life would end any minute. For three months, I killed and watched as other soldiers killed and were killed. We had so many close calls. The Germans kept coming at us. And worst of all, I lost my friends during that awful campaign. Even Denisov, who got me into uniform in the first place, wasn't spared. For a time, I lost myself, too. But…"

Talho glanced at her soulmate, who only stood like a tall redwood tree. She was struggling to fight back the burning tears in her eyes.

"…but it was Holland who brought me back."

Milena covered her mouth in shock, letting Talho's diatribe sink in. Now, she finally understood how affected her child was after all was said and done. Why didn't she notice this change sooner? Why didn't she reach out to her beforehand?

"Talho…"

Andrei was just as guilty for not realizing how much his little girl changed in those three years. He was unsure what to say next. Whether it was out of shame or sorrow was unclear.

"Oh, darling, we didn't…"

"Didn't think I would be put through that? Well, I was. And that's how it is. I've seen a lot of things during that campaign, and I would give anything to un-see them. When this war is finally over, I'm going to settle down in a more proper life. I am through with people deciding things for me."

Silence cast a long shadow over the table. Whether it was out of shock, exhaustion, or numbness, no one could say. None of the parties knew what else _to_ say. After a few daunting moments, Andrei and Milena stood up from their chairs and proceeded to leave their daughter's apartment, for now. They had heard more than enough.

»»»»»

 **May 3** **rd** **, 1945**

In the immediate aftermath of her parents' surprise visit, Talho felt ill to her stomach. When morning came, and when Holland tried to jostle her out of bed, she shooed him away. She hoped that maybe she could just spend today to collect her thoughts. But as Holland said,

"We have to take one day a time. Life doesn't stop for anyone."

The girl reluctantly donned her uniform, shouldered her weapon, and went off for another day of work. On the way to the office, Holland noted her dampened mood.

"Still sore from yesterday?" he asked. The black haired sergeant nodded, but said nothing.

She only kept staring at her boots with a glazed, listless look in her eyes. As she bit her lip, the second lieutenant could tell she was not in a talking mood.

"I guess I would be, too, if my parents chewed me out for the decisions I made in my life. Hell, I suspect my father would be quite surprised if he knew what I've gotten myself into over the past years."

Still silence from his girlfriend and subordinate. The look in her eyes didn't fade. For a moment, Holland caught a glimpse of himself in her, during his early youth. When he was more confident, self-assured. When he felt he knew what was best. Whenever he and his father debated where he should go in life. Of course, that was before all of this mess tore him and his family apart.

"Listen, Talho, I never told anyone this other than Renton and Eureka, but the truth is…I have lost more family than friends in this war. My little brother, Mikhail, didn't make it. He's gone and so is my mother. I don't even know if my two eldest brothers are alive. My old man could be dead for all I know. So, I believe it's best to stay on good terms with your family. You never know when they might be taken from you."

Talho remained silent, but the words sank in, slightly. Holland truly had lost much of what he had known in his life. She couldn't help but wonder how her beau didn't bear any grudge against his brothers or his father for leaving when they did. It must have been difficult fending for himself with no parents around. Friends can be easily chosen, fade in and out of life, but family always sticks around. From cradle to grave.

Upon reaching the militia office, both soldiers were given their assignments for the day. Talho never said a word, still too sore and raw from the heated exchange to speak. When she was assigned to sentry duty at the front door, all she gave was a sharp salute. No "yes, sir," or "understood." With a slick turn of her heels she manned her post outside. As Holland left to attend to paperwork, Colonel Volkov asked,

"Say, Lieutenant Novikov, is Sergeant Yukieva alright? It's not like her to be so quiet."

Wanting to spare his superior personal details, the ice blue eyed teen explained it in a way only he could do.

"Let's just say…she had a rough night."

Outside, Talho scanned the streets with her hazel eyes, rifle at her side and ready for any nefarious characters. Of course, she knew that the prospects for such a scenario were remote. Ever since the Zoot Suit Riots two years ago, the town had grown reposeful. In fact, that riot, orchestrated by Chertov, may have been the only truly dangerous thing to ever happen in this town. She couldn't remember the last time she had even caught a crook.

Her hand gripped the stock of her rifle, remembering how her parents encouraged her to join the Militia and put on the uniform. Her father always said that serving in uniform would benefit her in life. A future employer would look at her service favorably. Did he even realize how, until Normandy, she wasn't even treated like a soldier? Did he ever bother to check in on her when she spent days of quiet desperation mopping floors and fetching cigars?

Talho's teeth bit on her lip again, the years of suppressed resentment finding their way to the surface like cicadas rising from hibernation. Of course not. Neither of them did. As long as she was out and about, doing _something_ , petty details like that didn't matter.

She sighed. It was enough to make her wonder why they even had her in the first place. If children are such a burden, why bother having them at all?

A lone, middle-aged woman walked solemnly along the street across from her. Looking longingly at the shop windows, dragging her feet with regret in each step, something was clearly weighing on that woman. It was hard to make out, but when the woman stopped in front of a clothier, Talho could see the reflection cast by the glass.

"For the love of God…" she whispered to herself, agitated.

The woman turned away from the clothier and immediately caught sight of her daughter, standing stiff like a toy soldier. It was Milena again. What on earth did she want now?

Talho's mother gingerly crossed the street, an ounce of reluctance in each step forward. There were no cars around, so she took her time. It seemed every step was a battle the woman was fighting. Was it even worth trying to smooth things out or not? Somehow, Milena made it across, and approached her daughter. The daughter did not even make eye contact, instead just looking straight ahead.

"Talho…sunshine, this is quite a surprise! I stopped by your apartment earlier but…no one was home."

"How did you figure?" Talho posed, deadpan. "Looking through the peephole or actually going in like last time?"

"I prefer the latter, but we all know what happened last time."

Milena instantly shut up, realizing too late what she just said. Why on earth did she have to say that? Now an awkward silence surrounded them like a mist. The sergeant made no reaction in her face. The gaze straight ahead was almost damning.

"What is it you want? I'm on sentry duty right now."

"I was on my way to the clothing store until I noticed you nearby. Thought I should at least see how you were doing." Talho sighed quietly.

"It should be obvious by now."

"It doesn't seem that way to me, dear."

The older woman mentally cursed, criticizing herself for not being direct enough at a time like this. They could not remain like this the whole day. The least she could do was try to make amends with her daughter. Andrei was far too proud to admit his faults. Milena was different. She would not lose her daughter over something as petty as this.

"I'll be honest as I can with you, Talho. When you enlisted into the Militia, I thought you would have it easy. You would stand on patrol, look out for thieves and hooligans, and that was it. But it never really occurred to me that you would take part in real battles. You were right. I was far too ignorant at the time. Both myself and your father."

Milena grasped at her heart, feeling regret and guilt all over again.

"When you told us what you have been through in Normandy, I was in shock. Even after the fact, I kept thinking how close I was to losing my only child in the war. And that is when I realized: your father and I weren't the best parents after all. We wanted what was best for you, but at the same time, we didn't stop to ask of your opinions or your feelings."

Talho remained still. But she was greatly surprised to hear this coming out of her mother's mouth.

"For that, I am truly, deeply sorry, Talho."

Her daughter said nothing, and only shifted her feet. To hear an actual apology was something she never expected. It would have been better if she had heard her father say the same things. Still, it was better than nothing.

"You have every right to be angry with us. But just know that we were only thinking of you. And I will always be proud of you, no matter what it is you do with your life. Honestly, I'm proud of you now for standing up for yourself yesterday. I never would have expected it from you three years ago."

Not wanting to keep her daughter away from work, Milena made a quick salute to her sergeant.

"Keep up the good work, sunshine."

As her mother left, Talho felt something in her eyes. Warm, moist, and created from a mixture of sadness and happiness. As a tear ran down her cheek, she muttered something under her breath. Just before Milena disappeared from her view, she said,

"Spasibo, Mama."

After an especially long day, the militiamen finally went home, dismissed until early tomorrow morning. The officers had scheduled a field-training exercise that would last all day tomorrow, so it was in everyone's interest to get as much sleep as possible. In private, Talho did not see the point in such an event.

Beneath the cheap chandelier over their dinner table, Talho and Holland shared their gossip. Holland, evidently, was not any more enthused about the training exercise than she was.

"Sorry to make you go through that," he said as he chomped down some salad. "I tried to talk it over with Colonel Volkov, but he wouldn't listen."

"It's quite alright, Holland," Talho said with a smile of assurance, while cutting some onion bread in half with her butter knife. "I didn't mind it all that much. Though I wish they would cut back an hour at least."

"Volkov says it's in case the militia is called up for an invasion of Japan. That's some ways off, still. Though honestly, I doubt we will ever do that."

Holland reached for his glass of water, and noticed how Talho's mood had brightened since the time they first went off for the day's service. The dull listlessness in her eyes was gone, replaced with a soft, tranquil aura. It was good to see his love chipper than before, but he had to wonder why.

"So tell me about your day. Anything interesting happen while on sentry duty?"

Talho looked up at her second lieutenant, giving him a small smile of relief.

"Yes...I seen my mother in town. She apologized for what happened yesterday. We made up."

He chuckled lightly, stabbing his fork into another piece of kale with mushroom.

"Didn't I tell you? It's always better to keep your family close."

"My father still hasn't accepted us though. It'll probably take him forever to swallow his stupid pride."

"Men are stubborn like that," he said with a laugh. "My sister can tell you that from personal experience." Talho giggled.

"Oh? How so?"

"There was one time we both refused to eat some of her cooking. It was a new dish and we were adamant. 'Why don't you make the cheese blintzes like you always do?' Renton said. I had to hold him down while she fed him!"

Talho's eyes widened like a pair of tea plates. From recent two years of knowing Eureka, she always seen her as a gentle and soft-spoken girl. To hear something like felt like she was told of an entirely different person.

"You're kidding!"

"Ask her yourself next time you visit. And there's plenty more than just that story."

"I think I will." Talho nodded, munching on some lettuce from her salad.

"Poslushai," he said, setting down his fork with deliberation. "I've told you already that this war robbed me of many things. For all I know, Eureka and I could be the last of our family. But after everything I have seen, and been through with you and the others…I want to start over, same as you."

Talho was stunned by the sudden somber change in his tone.

"What brought this on, Holland?"

"I've been thinking. For a long time, I thought it was impossible to walk away from what you've done in the past. That it would forever be a part of me. I still live with the memories. However, everyone is still resolved to go on. Renton, Eureka, and now you. So, I want to do the same, and I want everyone there with me."

He looked down at his half-finished salad, and recounted everyone he was close with. Everyone he would give his life for.

"Sergeant Weaver. Renton. Eureka. Dominic. Anemone. But you, most of all. You are all my blood. My family."

Despite Andrei's disapproval of her decisions, Talho Yukieva no longer felt concerned. She could reconcile with Milena and that counted for something. The sergeant meant what she said yesterday and she would be damned if she took those words of resolve back.

Besides which, she also realized that she wasn't alone either. She still had friends who cared for her. Treated her like family. Those bonds were worth it more than any promotion in the militia.

Hopefully, at the war's end, her parents, Holland and her close friends will all spend time together just like the good old days, as one big family.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: As I stated previously, this is where the plot gets going (ironically, just when the war is ending), and we catch up with some old friends. You may recognize them from previous volumes, and they will be important throughout this story. And after this shock to the system, Renton may find that the hardest battle is not to defeat the enemy, but merely to engage. What do I mean? You'll know more next chapter.**

 **I hope you all enjoy this, and be sure to leave a review!**

* * *

 **Chapter Seven**

 **May 1** **st** **, 1945**

 **Bellforest, California, USA**

The lack of a letter from Petya or even from Vladimir was slightly troubling for Renton and Eureka. When they last heard from them, they were entering Berlin, ready to finally nail the coffin of the Reich shut. Perhaps it was simply the fact the fighting in the city was ongoing that kept them from writing, but both thought it would have been nice to give some reassurance. Vladimir promised in the last letter that he would try and arrange means for himself, Petya, Natasha, and the others to travel to the United States, and witness Renton and Eureka's wedding.

Whenever that eventually happened, of course.

Despite being engaged for a little over six months, Eureka thought it best to keep the arrangement a secret from those who didn't already know. It was a plan for after school and the war were finished after all. Renton accepted it, though only tacitly. While there was a certain degree of excitement in keeping everything under wraps, he didn't like how it felt so…dishonest. Everyone in school knew they loved each other. One was almost never seen without the other. Why all the deception?

Which is why, during lunchtime, the American Russian took it upon himself to convince Eureka to reconsider such secrecy. He didn't see the point in hiding away from the world anymore. He wanted his union to be clear, plain, and simple. If anybody had problems, they would have said something by now. Godspeed for that, Renton thought as he sat down at a wooden bench with his brown lunch bag.

Right as he sat down, Eureka exited the school building with her own lunch in hand, meeting Renton at their usual bench spot.

"Hey, you," Eureka greeted with a smile. "What do you have there?"

"Oh, nothing really special. There was a sandwich stand across the street, so I had to partake. What about you?"

"The cafeteria had my favorite bread today," Eureka said, sitting right beside Renton as she revealed her edible contents.

Out of her bag she produced a loaf of sourdough bread. Not a sandwich, but a whole loaf. Renton could not help but smile. Ever since he introduced her to his community's mainstay food, she loved it and would always have everything with sourdough bread. He sometimes wondered if she loved it more than she loved him.

"A plain loaf. Why am I not surprised?"

"I'm willing to share. Care to have some?"

"Sure. Why not?"

Eureka broke the loaf in half, just as Renton gave half of his sandwich to her. Funnily enough, the bread on his sandwich was also sourdough. As they ate, Renton thought about just what lay ahead of them when school eventually ended for both of them. They would graduate, no doubt. He hoped the war would be over by that time. But going back to the farm was a major endeavor, as was finally marrying his longtime friend and soulmate of seven years.

"Eureka, do you ever get scared about what's next for us?"

"No, not like before," Eureka said, at first. "Well, maybe a little apprehensive. Back in Stalingrad, I feared for my life every day. And two years ago, when Chertov and his assassins were after us, I feared for both of our lives. There were times when I couldn't sleep well, without worrying so much. But, since then, I've grown more hopeful for our future. Why do you ask?"

Renton placed his sandwich down and expressed his thoughts verbally.

"It's just that sometimes, when I think about what lies ahead of us after the war, it all feels a little daunting. Reclaiming the farm and rebuilding it won't be easy. And…I feel like married life will be a little strange, too."

"How so?" Eureka asked with a wry expression. "Because according to our brothers, we are pretty much like a married couple already. Even our classmates can see that."

He lightly blushed upon hearing that. Holland and William still teased him relentlessly for it, and, to be sure, it was not like they had not been living together for a long time, now. They treated each other as family. Whenever he held her tightly in a secluded corner of the halls, classmates would swoon and laugh. They were not strangers. They never were.

"I don't like all the attention we're getting," Eureka admitted, looking at the last piece of her sourdough bread.

The blush faded away, and the mood dampened. He never liked it when people called him a hero, but to hear her embarrassed about being singled out as in love with him seemed surreal.

"Eurekasha, it was never a problem before. You're not ashamed that you love me, are you? I know I'm not."

"Of course I'm not ashamed, Rentoshka!" she spluttered. "But, come on, think of what our teachers would say. You are 18 and I am 17! We are far too young for marriage. What if our advisors judge us? What if someone dissuades us from being together?"

"And what if they do? It won't come to that, surely."

"You don't know that!"

He sighed heavily, and hunched over, staring at his scuffed up walking shoes. It was one thing to walk away from his exploits in battle, and put up with showers of praise he felt undeserved. But this was different. He was always open with how much he loved her since the moment he admitted it on that cold, rainy Valentine's Day. They never shied away from it. Only now, when they were ready to take the relationship to the next logical step, did they keep to themselves.

Eureka ate the last piece of her lunch. There was a long moment of silence between the lovers now, as if a chasm suddenly appeared. She loved Renton and wanted nothing more than to be his wife. So, what on earth was stopping her? Was it fear of being dead the next day? Was it fear over not being good enough for Renton?

"I'm sorry. It's…just…I don't want people making a big deal about it. It's like everyone thinks I'm a commoner being engaged to royalty. Call it modestly rearing its ugly head, I guess. Also, I just don't want any other obstacles getting between us again, like all those years ago."

He inched his hand towards hers, and lightly gripped it, sensing her fears.

"For a long time, I was afraid too. I was afraid of how you would think of me asking you to make such a big decision. And I was afraid of what Holland or William would say. I thought for a long time they wouldn't approve. But even in the face of all of that, I bit the bullet. I wasn't ashamed to tell you how much I loved you."

He leaned in and said softly in her ear,

"Don't ever think you are not worthy of me. There is no one else I love in this world more than you…my darling."

Now it was Eureka's turn to blush, as she felt Renton's words tickle her ear and reach out to her. At that very moment, all fears and worries melted away. There was no more doubts. Now, she felt stupid on her behalf for such thoughts. She placed her lips softly against cheek and looked at his jade green eyes passionately.

"Thank you, moi lyubov."

He smiled and rested his forehead against hers, and curled one arm around her waist. There was a faint smell of perfume in her hair. Something taken from Paris, no doubt.

"If you still want to keep this a secret, I won't protest anymore. But that doesn't mean I can't still love you like I did before..."

He took his turn in a kiss, but further down on her neck. She had to bite back an aroused moan as she felt his lips on her smooth skin. However, their sweet moment was interrupted by the sound of a school bell ringing in the distance. The loud ring made them bump their foreheads in surprise. Lunch had ended, and with it their brief moment of intimacy. They gathered their things and walked back up the steps to the main hall for their next class, hands intertwined.

In the end, Renton knew Eureka was right. To loudly shout his engagement from the rooftops would only raise eyebrows. He didn't want any more attention either. A simple, modest life was the best thing he could have. If it meant keeping their arrangement under wraps, that is what he would do.

»»»»»

 **May 4** **th** **, 1945**

With the surrender of Berlin, the end of the war in Europe was all but a certainty. It had been only two days since the garrison laid down their arms, and for many it felt like the war was already over. Hitler was dead, the Nazi government was in a shambles, and the armies were beaten. There was no reason not to rejoice. But for some, Renton especially, the lack of an official surrender was slightly disconcerting. Would the SS launch a guerrilla war? Would the remaining armies flee to some far-flung corner of the world? Was there a secret weapon the Germans would deploy in an act of desperation?

As Renton locked up the pharmacy for the day, he thought to himself just what the world would look like at war's end. Undoubtedly, the soldiers will return home, families will be reunited, and the continent would try to stitch itself back together. What about him? What would his world look like after this long conflict at last ended?

Of course, he still had his farm he could return to. Renovating the place and re-sowing the fields. But even after the house was rebuilt, the seeds planted, and the crops grown, what else?

Marrying Eureka was the first thing that sprang to mind, something he wanted to save until school was over. Renton smiled inwardly as he started off towards the residential area and out of downtown. The thought of walking down the aisle, arm-in-arm with her, filled him with more elation than he could feel when this war ended.

In a dark alleyway of downtown, a figure draped in a blue cloak and hood watched the oak brown-haired boy cross the street in front of the coffee shop. A crooked grin stretched across the hidden face. The moment for retribution had come at last. Finally, the mission that had been set long ago would be completed. Nothing would save him, now. The figure emerged from the shadows and approached the young boy as he stood at the crossroads, looking for cars. The downtown business section was not as crowded for a Friday. Well, the figure thought, it just meant fewer witnesses.

A hand reached under the cloak and produced a semiautomatic pistol, a TT-33. It was incredibly difficult to keep it maintained with no spare parts to be found in America. At least it had survived up to this day. Hopefully it would last long enough to perform the deed. To finally complete the mission.

The figure was no more than 100 feet away from Renton as he crossed the street, heading towards the distant row houses. Now was the moment.

"THURSTON!"

At the other end of the street, Renton casually turned and faced the figure across the street. All at once the color from his face disappeared, his eyes almost popped out, and his jaw dropped. No, it couldn't be! The militia swore they were all dead or captured…!

The figure's head rose and beneath the hood sat the face of a young girl, just a little older than him. Two hazel eyes glared at the boy in contempt, and unkempt orange hair spilled out from under the hood.

"No, not you…!"

The girl raised her pistol and pointed at Renton's heart.

"Die, Renton Thurston!"

Before the orange-haired assassin could even fire a shot, Renton rushed her, hoping to tackle the gun out of her hands. The girl shot twice, but only one round connected, entering and exiting through his right arm. The pain was indescribable for Renton, but he bore with it and collided with the girl in a mixture of rage and fear. Not wanting to meet his untimely end, Renton swiftly kicked the gun out of the agent's grasp. It landed on the street, almost near the gutter. Furious, the assassin went for her gun while Renton fled for shelter.

Just as she retrieved her gun, several voices called out from Renton's right.

"Hey, you! What's going on around here?"

Renton, hiding behind a wooden bench, looked up over the edge and saw what must have been a squad of militiamen, armed to the teeth and at the ready. Thank God, he thought. Maybe they could resolve this cleanly.

He was a fool to think that, as the assassin immediately opened fire on the advancing squad. No shots connected, but the militiamen immediately found cover in different parts of the square as a gun battle took shape. The assassin followed suit, blind-firing from behind a large potted plant. Two militiamen kneeling behind the wrought-iron fence of a café returned fire with their rifles, successfully pinning her down. A battle of one versus eight was hardly a fair fight.

Renton watched with baited breath as the girl produced a hand-grenade from underneath her cloak. Where on earth did she even get that? As she primed the grenade and threw it, one of the militiamen yelled to displace.

"Grenade incoming! Scatter!"

The two militiamen ran away from the fence and into the café as the grenade landed among the wooden chairs and tables. It detonated with a loud bang, sending metal shrapnel and wood splinters in all directions. Now the assassin advanced, hoping to seize the initiative, but little did she know that her back was completely exposed. Renton saw an opportunity and took it.

Charging faster than a race horse, he rushed at the girl from behind, hoping to take her down before she could do anymore damage. All at once the girl felt a sudden, strong, blunt force attack her from behind, and found it to be her target. The assassin fell on her back on the pavement, and Renton locked one hand around her wrist, trying to squeeze the pistol from her grip while the other pulled back the cloak. She wore a military uniform. Disheveled, showing signs of wear, but clearly marked her for who she was. Renton screamed at her in a rage,

"Who the hell are you?! Are you alone?! I thought I was done with you!"

She laughed and kneed him in the stomach, knocking him off her. She did not even bother to answer his questions as she rose, and leveled her pistol.

However, fate managed to intervene in time. Several rifle shots came from Renton's right, and two connected with the assassin's left arm and shoulder. With a scream of pain, she clutched her arm as the pistol clattered to the pavement. Renton immediately grabbed it, and aimed with purpose at her face.

"Want to start talking now?" Renton asked.

"In your dreams, Thurston!" the assassin snapped. "Go ahead and shoot me! It's all you're good at, isn't it? Fighting and killing? I'm starting to realize why Lieutenant Chertov wanted you dead to begin with!

She laughed in derision as Renton hesitated for a few crucial seconds upon hearing Chertov's name. Just as she was about to charge him and wrestle the pistol away from him, the girl felt a cold, hollow tube press on her temple. Looking up, she found a woman in the militia's uniform, holding an M1 in her hands. Renton smiled at seeing his friend.

"Talho, thank God…"

"I heard gunfire. Looks like we got here in time."

"We?"

Close behind Talho stepped Holland, wearing an officer's uniform, holding a Colt .45 pistol. One look at the assassin left both soldiers in shock. They recognized her.

"And here I was," Holland said sighing, "thinking patrols were an easy job…"

Holland reached one hand out to turn the assassin's face to him, just to confirm his suspicions. The assassin breathed heavily as she scowled at him, defiance and anger in her hazel eyes.

"So, still as reckless as you were when you broke into Rentoshka's house, are you? Feels like a lifetime ago. Some things just never change."

"What did you do with Lieutenant Chertov?" she hissed. "Where are my comrades?"

"Last I heard, Chertov went back to Russia for trial. As for those other hooligans…you'll see."

Talho stayed with the assassin as Holland checked in with his closest friend and future brother-in-law. His eyes had shrunk to the size of marbles, bouncing around as if searching for enemies. His whole arm shook with fright as Holland rested a hand on his.

"Are you okay, my brother?"

Renton looked over at the wound on his right arm. A small perforated hole through his shirt sleeve, stained red. Despite the wound's small size, it hurt immensely as Renton winced whenever he tried to move it.

"Well, it's not as bad as it could be," Holland consoled him. "Looks like it went in and out. You'll be okay."

As Holland left to get a medic, Renton only sat, soaked in shock. He thought there would be no more fighting. No more killing. He thought Chertov and his agents were figures of his past, consigned to the ashbin of his memory. No matter how hard he tried to forget and move on from his past, something would pull him back. Why couldn't he and his family just be left alone? Why couldn't people just leave the past in the past?

He watched as a militiaman escorted the assassin to the office in town. She glanced back at him in a mixture of contempt and dejection. Even though the fight was over and his life spared, Renton could only wonder what was truly at work here. Chertov was gone, he thought. How could this agent still be active? How long had she been waiting to make that move?

Just who exactly was the mastermind behind all of this madness?

»»»»»

 **May 5** **th** **, 1945**

The dimly lit room carried a forbidding, dark sense of familiarity to Agent 909. It was no surprise, considering she had once been in this same room once before. Back then, she was a young agent, reckless and volatile. She never divulged anything except her code number. Now, after years of living in the shadows only strengthened that resolve. She never gave any information for fear of blowing her cover. That same training would get her through this. At least, that's what she thought.

The leather cut into her wrists and ankles whenever she tried to move. The militia had learned well from their first attempt at interrogation. But just how different an animal were they now? Was that pencil-mustachioed lieutenant still around?

Much to her surprise, there was a new lieutenant who graced the room. He was a younger man, with short tousled grey hair and ice blue eyes. He remained silent as he sat himself down on the chair opposite side of the agent. Two sergeants followed in after him, one a female with short black hair and hazel eyes, and the other with sideburns.

"It's been a while, hasn't it? Long time, no see," Holland said, dryly.

909 stayed silent, only glaring at him while flipping her long, unruly orange hair over her shoulder with a twitch of her head. The female sergeant came beside her, looking down with a dispassionate stare.

"Sergeant Weaver, light please."

A lamp illuminated the room if only slightly. Holland took the chance to introduce himself and make his presence clear to 909.

"I am Second Lieutenant Holland Novikov. I'll be questioning you from here on out, and I expect you to answer my questions. Is that clear?"

"Oh, the Novikov boy," 909 said, smirking lightly. "the Lieutenant told me about you once. You were living in the American's house the night we all broke in. So where's that other lieutenant? The one who interrogated me last time I was here?"

Talho tensed up a little, curling her fists in a mix of anguish and anger. Weaver looked away in slight discomfort. That failed interrogation almost exploded into violence. She had to wonder what Denisov would think now that this girl was in their custody again. Noticing the reactions from his trusted colleagues, Holland continued with haste.

"That is not important. What _is_ important is you and me, in this room. This is the third assassination attempt against Renton Thurston. What were you trying to achieve with your superior thrown in the slammer?"

"If you think you can get anything out of me, you're mistaken. I've lived in the shadows for years since you captured Chertov. I'm used to hiding things now."

"Of course not," Holland sighed, glancing towards Talho.

Talho nodded, and gently pressed the heel of her boot onto 909's. The pressure grew until she heard a wince from the young agent, and held her foot there. 909 groaned in discomfort, but smiled as she fought through her words.

"This is your latest brand of state-sanctioned violence, is it? Are you running out of ideas or something?!"

Talho kept up the pressure until she thought for sure she would crush 909's foot. Holland kept on, determined to get whatever he could out of 909. It didn't matter what he had to do as long as this madness ended. Not just for the sake of Renton or Eureka, but for his future as well. The memory had to be put to rest.

"Why are you here, Agent 909? Who sent you to assassinate Renton Thurston?"

"Oh, you know my code number, do you?" she jeered, laughing and groaning at the same time. "Did that mustachioed officer give you his files on me? Didn't think they'd keep dirt on me for that long!"

Talho grinded her teeth at the memory of Denisov being invoked again. One hand grabbed the back of 909's scalp and tightly pulled up her head, scratching her skin.

"Everyone you know and worked with is dead or captured," she said softly. "There's no point in you holding onto whatever secret you have."

"Well, I can try."

Holland stood up and placed a combat knife towards 909's face. He lowered it to the nape of her neck.

"You're wasting time and energy here. Who sent you?"

Breathing heavily, 909 tried to give a satisfactory answer.

"I came here with the other agents under Lieutenant Chertov. He had his own reasons for killing that kid. What more do you need to know?"

"Your real commanding officer. Who is he?"

"Do it, Novikov," she hissed. "You'll be doing me a favor. Chertov told me about you too. I wonder how your father would think of you now, knowing you betrayed your country to stay close to the American…!"

SLAP!

Holland struck a strong hand across 909's face, hard. Her mouth drew blood from the small cut of her lip.

"Insult me all you want, but DO NOT bring up my family."

No longer waiting for answers, Holland placed his blade upon 909's shoulder and placed it there firmly.

"Oh, if only you knew the truth, Novikov," 909 said mockingly, grinning. Holland raised his eyebrow.

"What's that mean?"

The orange-haired agent started to laugh riotously, like there was a great joke Holland could not understand. A veil of hair covered her eyes as she hissed out her words.

"If you want answers, maybe start by going back to Stalingrad and your own fucking household. Of course, you won't do that, will you, turncoat? No, you won't, because you gave up everything your country and the Party ever gave you to—AAAGH!"

Now thoroughly agitated, Holland cut across 909's tunic and into her shoulder. A splotch of red began to form on her side. He had had enough of her taunting, and motioned to Weaver to open the door.

"What, that's it?!" 909 laughed, not minding the pain. "You torture like a sissy, Novikov! Come on! Do your job! Or are you the weakest of the Novikov family?! You're a fucking disgrace!"

Weaver turned the knob and the door opened, bringing in a blinding light to the room. The person who next walked in made 909 quickly fall into deathly silence. All that was heard was a frightful shudder.

It was another woman with light blonde hair that had long since grown to her shoulder blades. She had soft green eyes of compassion and conviction, and wore a simple white long-sleeve blouse with a black knee-length skirt and inch heel shoes. The woman looked down at her former comrade with pity and disappointment.

"Y-you are…"

"Hello, Agent 909. Do you still remember me?"

909 stammered, not even paying attention to the bandages being applied to her wound. The sight of her old comrade and former second-in-command of the Alpha Squad was simply too shocking. As the redeemed Soviet agent approached, the contrast between them became starker, and more pathetic.

"A…Agent 340…what are you doing here? I thought you were dead! I thought everyone else was dead!"

Holland offered his seat to the woman. She took it and laced her hands together.

"I surrendered willingly to the Militia, as did 271. She's alive too and living with me. Neither of us saw any reason to kill an innocent child. Since then, we've been working to redeem ourselves for our crimes. We are free from Chertov, now." 909's face turned pale at that revelation.

"W-What...? When did you surrender? What have you been doing all of this time, then?!"

"I surrendered three years ago, during the Zoot Suit riot."

Nadia sighed, expecting this sort of reaction from her former comrade. It has been three years since they last spoke to each other, after all.

"The rest is not important. Agent 909, please tell them what they need to know. It's pointless of you to be put through this. It's not fair to you or Thurston. That boy…no…that man has suffered a great deal all because of a spoiled, jealous madman. His family is suffering."

Nadia leaned in closer, touching 909's shoulder with care.

"Chertov has brainwashed you into believe inflicting pain on an innocent man is right. But you…you know better than that, surely! Is that how you wish to be in your remaining years? A ruthless person, just like Chertov?"

909 only hung her head down, looking at her beaten up uniform and old boots. She was the only person who still sought to follow the mission through. Everyone else, at least those who survived, had moved on. Agent 340, the tough, quiet second-in-command, had turned against Chertov. Agent 271, the Kazakh girl, did the same. They both sided with the American.

"It was all for nothing…" she whispered to herself, her eyes growing moist. "Everything I did…all those years of hiding and preparing…it didn't matter anymore. It was all for nothing!"

"Not all of it was a waste, 909," Nadia reasoned softly. "You can still change for the better. You can still do the right thing."

Like an upset child, the washed-up agent broke down in sobs.

After a long moment's silence, with only 909's sobs echoing the room, Holland, Talho, and Weaver left the room. It was best to give them privacy for the time being, especially for a situation as delicate as this.

A few hours passed as 909 gave all the information she could. Even outside the room, Holland could still hear her cries. The more time passed, the more he pitied her rather than hated her. A girl who blindly followed the orders of a madman, and stuck to a mission long after it was aborted. What was it all for? What was there to gain?

Nadia and 909 emerged from the interrogation room, with 909 still crying. Weaver escorted her back to the stockades outside the militia office, while Nadia convened with Holland and Talho about what she learned. It was shocking.

"So?" he asked. "What did she tell you?"

Nadia sighed heavily, knowing what such information would entail. Regardless, and for the sake of Renton's closure, she relayed all that she could to the lieutenant. Intent eyes of ice blue slowly turned wider and wider to the sizes of dinner saucers. The whole world was spinning around him, refusing to stop.

Was Nadia truly telling the truth or was he just in denial?

Either way, this was not what he expected to hear. Feeling his feet wobble slightly he sat himself down, took off his cap, rubbed his face and closed his eyes tight. The truth was a painful thing at times, but not this devastating!

»»»»»

 **May 8** **th** **, 1945**

Thankfully for Renton, the would-be assassin's bullet was not fatal and did not grievously wound him. However, it left him with a sore right arm and a very anxious mind. Although Holland and the rest of the Militia assured him there were no other assassins involved, it still left Renton slightly worried. Just when he thought the worst was over, another event came to set him back. He still looked over his shoulder as he locked up the pharmacy and walked down to the diner. He needed to cleanse his mind and drown his worries in a glass of root beer.

A soft ringing of the bell atop the doorframe heralded his arrival, and he was greeted by the waiter and a gentle Irish lilt played in the corner. Unsurprisingly, Anemone and Dominic were gracing everyone with their musical talents once again.

He smiled and waved to them before approaching the bar and asking for a root beer. He paid with a dime, and listened quietly to the soft, strange tune.

 _Kind friends and companions, come join me in rhyme_

 _Come lift up your voices in chorus with mine_

 _Come lift up your voices, all grief to refrain_

 _For we may or might never all meet here again_

 _Here's a health to the company and one to my lass_

 _Let's drink and be merry all out of one glass_

 _Let's drink and be merry, all grief to refrain_

 _For we may or might never all meet here again_

Gently bobbing his head, Renton took the glass of root beer and drained it. Satisfyingly smooth. It was a shame Eureka had gone home and couldn't join him; she would like the taste as well. Meanwhile, an old man in his sixties, the manager, turned on the radio, searching through audio stations of the latest news. It had been a long time since any updates regarding the war. It seemed like it would be a quiet evening in the diner before he eventually would head home. That is, until the whole world changed.

A young boy showed up, who appeared to be no more than 12, wearing a white long sleeved shirt with tan brown trousers and shoes. He burst into the diner, ringing the bell loudly as he waved his cap, showing a full head of ginger hair.

"The war in Europe's over, you guys!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Germany's surrendered!"

Renton almost fell to the ground, feeling floored by the reveal. Was the lad serious? Had the Nazis finally given in? Was this the start of a long, overdue end to the heinous war that robbed every individual of what they had?

Suddenly everything in the diner stopped, as if the world itself had come to a grinding halt. Dominic and Anemone stopped their performance, and the old man grew more frantic in searching for any news station. A crackle of static gave way to a stately reporter giving the latest on the news. Apparently, the surrender had happened mere hours earlier.

"… _we are currently awaiting the comments of President Truman about this development in the war. As we stated previously, the forces of Germany unconditionally surrendered to the Allied Expeditionary Force and the Soviet Red Army earlier today. It seems like this is the moment we have all dreamed and hoped for."_

Renton gripped the sides of the bar in anticipation, and every customer and employee crowded around the small wooden box. This was history in the making. At long last, the end of a brutal war was upon them. At this rate, Renton thought, Japan would be next to surrender. The soldiers who fought tooth and nail to this day will finally return home to their loved ones. His father will finally come back in his life.

All his battles throughout those 3 years were not in vain. The deaths of so many near and dear to his heart were not a waste.

" _Uh, excuse me, but I think…yes, President Truman is approaching the microphone now, and is about to give his comments. We take you now to the radio room of the White House in Washington, D.C."_

There was a soft murmur, as everyone leaned in closer. A familiar, stately voice with a slight southern twang greeted them all. President Harry Truman.

" _This is a solemn but a glorious hour. I only wish that Franklin D. Roosevelt had lived to witness this day. General Eisenhower informs me that the forces of Germany have surrendered to the United Nations. The flags of freedom fly over all Europe._

 _For this victory, we join in offering our thanks to the Providence which has guided and sustained us through the dark days of adversity. Our rejoicing is sobered and subdued by a supreme consciousness of the terrible price we have paid to rid the world of Hitler and his evil band. Let us not forget, my fellow Americans, the sorrow and the heartache, which today abide in the homes of so many of our neighbors—neighbors whose most priceless possession has been rendered as a sacrifice to redeem our liberty._

 _We can repay the debt which we owe to our God, to our dead and to our children only by work—by ceaseless devotion to the responsibilities which lie ahead of us. If I could give you a single watchword for the coming months, that word is—work, work, and more work._

 _We must work to finish the war. Our victory is but half-won. The West is free, but the East is still in bondage to the treacherous tyranny of the Japanese. When the last Japanese division has surrendered unconditionally, then only will our fighting be done._

 _We must seek to bind up the wounds of a suffering world—to build an abiding peace, a peace rooted in justice and in law. We can build such a peace only by hard, toilsome, painstaking work—by understanding and working with our allies in peace as we have in war._

 _The job ahead is no less important, no less urgent, no less difficult than the task which now happily is done._

 _I call upon every American to stick to his post until the last battle is won. Until that day, let no man abandon his post or slacken his efforts."_

And at that moment, the deadly silence instantly turned to an uproar of cheers, screams and joyful shouts. After too many years of destruction, hardship, and perseverance, the great victory was at hand in the end. Germany had surrendered and Japan stood alone. They would be next.

A tearful Anemone embraced Dominic tightly. Customers in the diner, young and old embraced one another, danced together, and even cried together. Every person who had ever lost something from the war, whether it be friends, family, lovers, children, or mementos back home, finally gained the closure they desired.

Renton could not contain his excitement and joy, and practically jumped up and down, forgetting the root beer he still held in his hands. Tears escaped his eyes as he hugged every customer, friend and stranger, he could find. When he found Anemone and Dominic, the old friends cried and laughed together in relief and rejoice.

"Finally..." Renton whispered, biting back sobs. "Finally...it's almost over...!"

The greatest war the world had ever known was almost over. However, a whole other was far from over. For every piece of good news always comes with bad news.

A young militia officer entered the diner, and found it the scene of a major celebration. As he removed his cap and smoothed out his tangled grey hair, he searched for Renton. A tired, resolute smile hid the bitter truth. The truth of a much greater threat, one closer to both his and Renton's hearts.

The young war hero pushed through the crowds and ran into the officer. When he saw his friend and future brother-in-law's face, he embraced him tightly.

"Did you hear, Holland? Germany surrendered today. The war in Europe is over."

Holland chuckled at Renton's boisterous cheering.

"Yes, yes, Rentoshka, I heard it loud and clear. Talho and I heard it back at HQ. It's about damn time, yeah?"

The newly appointed lieutenant pulled back slightly as he gazed at Renton's happy expression. Holland's heart swelled as well as sunk at the same time. It would seem too cruel to dash his best friend's hopes in such a way. But, there was no other way to do it. Renton needed to know. He had to know.

"Why don't you come in and join us?" he asked. "I'll buy you a root beer myself!"

"Um, actually, I came here to talk to you."

Holland then whispered for none to hear as he moved to Renton's ear.

"It's about that woman who attacked you."

Renton's face quickly turned from a look of ecstatic happiness to one of concern. Of all the days to learn the truth, it had to be this one?

"W-What did you find out?" Holland looked around and gripped Renton's arm gently.

"It's noisy in here. Let's go outside."

Renton did not even give consent before he was pulled out by Holland, and brought into an alleyway. As the door closed behind them, the immense joy and revelry was instantly replaced by a cold, sinister fear. What more was there to that woman? She was the last remnant of a defeated troupe of assassins headed by a deranged madman. A rival who he thought was long gone, a distant memory.

"Two days ago, I interrogated Agent 909 but she wouldn't crack, obviously. So, I had help from someone close to her: the former Agent 340. You probably remember her; Nadia Shevtsova or something like that? Anyway, she could reason with 909. What she relayed to me…was not very easy to digest, frankly."

"What did you learn? Was she acting on her own?" The other boy shook his head slowly.

"No, and it wasn't Chertov, like we all believed at first."

"Wait, if Chertov didn't orchestrate the assassination attempt, who did?"

Holland sighed deeply and finally revealed what he considered, the horrible truth.

"The person who sent 909 after you...the villain who is plotting your downfall…was Lieutenant Colonel Dewey Novikov, my eldest brother."

Renton's brain went numb at the reveal. He only knew Dewey a little from his first visit to Stalingrad. He was noticeably absent at the battle. But why would a member of Holland and Eureka's own family target him? Why now, when the war was almost over? And what was there to gain from sending Chertov and all the other agents after him?

Renton leaned against the brick walls and slid down, breathing heavily. No, this wasn't happening. It was all just a bad dream. It couldn't be him. It couldn't be a member of the Novikov family, the family that welcomed him with open arms and treated him like a brother. Holland could not muster any strength to say much of anything as he watched his best friend break down as soon as he was built back up.

"God…why now? Of all the times, why now?!"

Holland tried to console him, but Renton only pushed him away. He stood up and quickly left the alleyway. He didn't go back to the diner, but headed in the direction of home. He refused to believe. No, it wasn't a matter of believing. It was merely a refusal to be pulled back into the darkness.

Nothing would take him back to that dark place. The place where he nearly went insane countless times. The place where he almost lost Eureka, and saw so many friends die. Those memories from the past had to stay in the past.

He would never return to that place, and do that deadly work. No one, not even the eldest son of the Novikovs, would pull him back in.

 _Nazi Germany officially surrendered to the Allied Powers on May 8_ _th_ _, 1945._

 _By that time, the Second World War had cost over 50 million lives._


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I am glad everyone enjoyed chapter seven. Writing the end of World War II while also revealing who is really behind the cloak and dagger business was cathartic; a moment that was supposed to be a great event, something to celebrate, was the day Renton learned the terrible truth. And needless to say, he's not quite ready to confront it just yet. Such is the theme here. In addition, we also see a fan favorite character get one last sendoff, and gracefully leave the stage. Who is that character? Read and find out.**

* * *

 **Chapter Eight**

 **May 10** **th** **, 1945**

The air was thick with tension that day as two parties sat down at the militia headquarters alone.

Holland and Talho on one side of the table, with Renton and Eureka on the opposite. Ever since the shocking revelation of Dewey Novikov's sinister agenda, everyone was still at a loss over what to do next. Eureka, who had been told of Dewey through Renton, was distraught beyond belief. She was not as close to him as she was with her other three brothers, but the fact that Dewey wanted her fiancé dead was not expected in the slightest.

In the face of such horrific news, Renton and Eureka were quiet during the meeting. They had barely survived the whiplash of two years, with midnight attacks, messy love triangles, witnessing the loss of friends in one brutal campaign, and a vile madman relentless in his pursuits against them. For Renton, there seemed little reason to keep pursuing danger after danger. Why should he and Eureka go through that insanity again, just when peace was finally in sight? The day Japan surrendered was the day this long war would come to an end.

However, if Dewey really was involved in this cloak and dagger business against his best friend, Holland needed answers. There were myriad questions already being asked. Where had his eldest brother been this entire time? Why was Renton being targeted? Did he have backing from the Soviet government? Did Stalin consent to all of this?

As if there was not enough confusion, the young lieutenant was stunned when Renton and his sister remained silent as he went over possible plans of action. Holland knew they wanted to live life happily and quietly, but something more was at stake now, something that could potentially threaten all of them.

"So, I think," Holland concluded, "if we grab the next ship, we can get to Russia a lot faster. The next Lend-Lease convoy leaves in early June. That'll give us plenty of time to bring in a squad for security and other supplies for the trip."

"That's right," Talho agreed, nodding.

The older couple looked over to Renton's direction, seeking his opinion. His arm was still bandaged with a tourniquet, a faint shade of red reminding them of his ordeal. Renton's eyes were despondent, somewhat annoyed.

"So, Renton, what do you think?"

"Why are you asking me? I'm not going anywhere. Eureka and I are staying in Bellforest, as we should be."

Holland sighed, not surprised by Renton's response.

"Look, Petroshka, I understand how you feel, but we need to at least discuss it. You have to give some input."

"I have nothing else to say about it," Renton stubbornly denied.

"You can't ignore this forever, my friend."

Eureka spoke out, trying to discourage her sibling.

"Brother, what is the point in doing anything? The war is almost over. There's no need to keep fighting. Aren't you tired of it? Don't you just want this all to end?"

Holland scoffed at Eureka's idealism. She traveled around the world and had seen God knows how many horrors in the Normandy campaign. She was almost an adult, and still clinging to childish things?

"Just because Germany surrendered doesn't mean there is peace. We may need the Soviet Union's help in defeating Japan."

"I know that much. But, I just don't think it's necessary to obsess over this." Holland's blue eyes flared, a fire stoked inside of him.

"For God's sake, Tatiana, this is our brother we are talking about here! Don't you want to know why Dewey would do this to Renton? To all of us? It's even more reason to figure out why Renton was targeted. We deserve to know the truth, more than anything."

"Honestly, I don't think I want to know why. Dewey is not my concern."

The little sister that Holland knew and loved dearly had changed. Since the beginning of this war, Eureka had slowly grown from a timid and docile child to a brave and strong woman. Now it seemed like the cloak and dagger business had reset her whole personality.

"Sister, please. Don't lie to me right now! I know you want answers too! He's _our_ family. If he sent Chertov after Renton and me, wouldn't you want to know why? Don't you want to know what really happened to Mikhail?" (A/N: Mikhail Petrovich Novikov. The youngest brother of the Novikov family. See Books 1 and 2.)

At that thought of her lost brother, Eureka felt a pain in her stomach, a sharp stab. Nevertheless, she looked away, refusing to engage Holland any further.

"I already know what happened. Like Renton said, the past is in the past." Holland couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"No..."

"Vasya," Renton reasoned, "what if you are mistaken? What if Agent 909 was lying? I mean, one must always be wary of certain information that's obtained by force. It could be another trap for all of us. Who's to say there aren't other agents that—!"

Holland, having heard enough of such talk, slammed his fists on the iron table.

"Goddammit you two!"

Eureka flinched at her brother's angry outburst, but Renton was just as startled. Even during their innocent childhood years, Holland had never raised his voice against either of them. It was a rare time for Holland express his fury. The grey-haired Russian lifted his head and gave Renton and Eureka the most furious, harshest glare ever seen.

"You think this is a choice?! You think I want to do this?! If Chertov was behind it all, I would have closed this case long ago! If it were just a lone wolf acting out, I would have shipped her ass down to the consulate in San Francisco, and she'd be on her way to Siberia by now! But it's not Chertov who ordered this. It's our own BROTHER, for fuck's sake! He's your family as well as mine! That's why I can't ignore this!"

Holland looked down at his boots, buffed and polished. The luster reflected his face wrought with anger and loss. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw Dewey. His cold blue eyes. The smug smile.

"There is nothing I would like more than for all of this to vanish, but that will never happen. I know you want nothing to do with fighting, but in the end, it's unavoidable. Dewey will arrive one day and he will come after your head. How are you going to deal with him when it's too late?"

The young couple on the opposite side of the table remained in stunned silence throughout the lieutenant's diatribe against them. Both were at a loss over what to say to counter Holland's points. Like a prosecutor in a courthouse, the lieutenant pointed an accusing finger at his closest friend.

"How long will you ignore the bigger picture? How long are you going to play the fool in all of this?"

"For as long as I want," Renton said coldly. "I'm done with this, Holland. I'm staying here and starting over from where I left off."

"So, you would rather be a coward and let Dewey do what he wants to do?" Holland accused.

"That's not what I'm saying!" Renton lied.

"You might as well be! If you are the Renton Thurston I know, you wouldn't be such a chicken shit! This is the same exact crap you pulled back in Normandy. When we lost Charles, Ray, and Jacques, you wanted to turn your back on everything and leave! You wanted to run away, like a damn coward!"

The young boy's muscles tensed up at the memories of his French comrades being invoked. Even now, their deaths still haunted him. Even now, Renton still wanted to repress those feelings of guilt and sorrow. Eureka and Talho had worried expressions on their faces as they continued to watch the heated argument.

"Don't start with me."  
"Or else what?"

"Holland, I am warning you right now…"

"Everyone knows that when things don't go your way, you shut down completely. You would rather cut and run when shit hits the fan! William knows it, I know it, and Eureka knows it!"

Infuriated, Renton stood up, reached his hand towards Holland, and grabbed his collar pulling him out of his chair. He outraged jade eyes pierced right through Holland's unwavering blue ones.

"Say one more thing and see what happens!"

Holland shoved him back and held Renton by his shirt.

"Go ahead and hit me! I dare you!"

"Renton!"

"Holland!"

Talho and Eureka worked together to keep their respective lovers from fighting. Holland allowed himself to be pulled back but he wasn't done chewing out his future brother-in-law.

"Moving on from the past, my ass! You're just refusing to acknowledge it! Petroshka, do you really want more assassins greeting you at your home again, like two years ago!?"

The other lad took a deep breath to calm his senses. He had to regain his composure, lest he make himself even more foolish inside the Militia office.

"No, I don't," Renton answered. "But I also think the past should be left in the past. I told you when I came back from Normandy I intended to live my own life in peace. All this time I have been chasing after my past, and every time I go back, there is more ugliness to find. I don't have the strength for it anymore."

The grey-haired lieutenant stood in place like a statue, glaring at his old friend.

"The world can't stay beautiful forever. I would think someone like you, who has traveled high and low, would already be aware of that."

Holland dusted himself off and spoke again.

"My men and I are going to Russia in early June. I wish there was another way, but there isn't. You're not going to convince me otherwise."

Renton bit his lower lip in frustration over Holland's stubbornness. If he was going to carry on this meaningless crusade, Renton couldn't care less. That will be one headache out of his life at least.

"Be my guest. And tell Dewey I'll see him in Hell."

Unable to stay another minute, Renton left the headquarters in a huff with Eureka following close behind. She did not even look back as the door closed behind her. Talho and Holland watched them leave and the lieutenant sighed as he slumped back to his chair.

"That went well," Talho commented, shuffling her sentry reports.

"What a goddamned fucking mess this all is…"

»»»»»

 **May 15** **th** **, 1945**

Even though Japan still stood in the way of peace, for many people the war was already over. Europe, to many, was the most decisive front in the war and where the most danger was to be had if the Allies lost. The most important war was done, and it would not be long until Japan would give in as well. At least, that was everyone's hope.

And yet Japan still fought on. The almost suicidal fanaticism of its defenders was astonishing to both Allied troops and civilians. The Emperor was a god on earth, and to die for him was the greatest act any Japanese citizen could do. A country that valued honor and prestige so highly would not surrender unless beaten or shocked into submission. The question remained: what would it take to end this long war? An invasion of the Japanese? Some new weapon? Or something else entirely?

Jane Hart tried her best not to think of such things, and instead spent her remaining days in America happily, without regret. For it was less than a week after news of the German surrender when she received a letter addressed from London. And she recognized it as her old home. The one she had to abandon when Britain's situation seemed desperate, and children were not safe. Normally she would have been glad to receive the news, but for some reason, she kept feeling wounded. A knife was lodged in her heart, and every time she viewed the words, the blade kept twisting itself deeper.

 _8 May 1945_

 _My dearest Jane,_

 _I am sure by the time this letter reaches you, you will know the news. This long war with Germany is finally over. Our soldiers are coming back, and I am writing to ask you to come home as well._

 _Your mother and I have missed you greatly since the day you left Southampton more than five years ago. Your brother Philip has survived the war, thank God, and is arriving home from Germany in a few weeks. He said he wants to see you again. In fact, all our neighbors and friends want to see you back._

 _Enclosed please find tickets for the next ship out of New York. We were not sure how long you would need to travel, so we found a decent priced trip at the end of May. Of course, I am sure you made plenty of friends while in America, so this will give you time to settle your affairs and say goodbye to everyone. But please, when it is time, come back to us, my dear daughter._

 _When you come home, we can start rebuilding our lives again._

 _Your loving Father_

Oh, she made friends indeed, and some enemies too. Although, there was one especially dear friend from whom she could not stand to be separated again. Not so soon after finally making amends. She sighed resignedly as she clutched the letter in her hands, walking to the café in the center of town.

A street guitarist played a somber melody as she reached the square. They were quite common in this place. This town was quaint, peaceful, and in many ways, melancholically nostalgic. Even when the war was still in full swing, it always seemed that peace had come in Bellforest. It was just another thing she would miss about this town.

Jane sniffed. No, she wouldn't cry. She cried far too often, she thought. When the time came to leave Renton, and say goodbye, she would be strong, she told herself. She could not let him see her cry.

The more she thought about it, the more she realized how her friendship with the town's hero had so deeply shaped her. She did not truly have friends in Britain; most only knew her because of the influence her family wielded. She never truly made friends, people who loved her for who she was rather than her money or her estate. Until she came here. Until she met him.

He may never have loved her but he gave her something just as valuable. Her first foray at love was limited in success, but she was still left with a caring, forgiving soul through all their ups and downs. Perhaps it was enough that she was that close to him.

She spotted a young girl with long brown hair cascading over the back of her seat. As her head turned, lively grey eyes like snow greeted Jane. It was Eureka, the girl for whom Renton had fought, suffered, and almost died several times. Jane was still astounded that Eureka could be so affable considering their less than cordial history. Why was she still so kind to her? Why did she still smile when she saw the blonde girl approaching?

"Oh, Jane! How lovely to see you! Please, sit down with me."

"O-of course, thank you."

Eureka scooted over slightly to make room, and Jane felt tighter than a spring. How they were still so friendly with each other was nothing but astounding. The fact they were friends at all seemed a fantasy, something cooked up in a cheesy romance novel. It could only be attributed to Eureka's kind, forgiving soul. Was she a girl or an angel displaced from Paradise?

"So how has the week been for you?"

"…it's been all right, I suppose. I'm just glad school won't be lasting for much longer." Eureka nodded in agreement.

"Oh yes, it's been so terribly stressful. Preparing for those final exams? When June comes, I will need to sleep for about a year or two!"

The two girls laughed quietly at the thought. But every joint in Jane's body still felt rigid. She almost had to fight to open her hands and smooth out the letter from her parents. That relieving, wonderful, horrible, damnable, poorly timed letter. She had to think about something else. She just had to!

"Where is Renton? At home studying?" Eureka's smile receded slightly and her grey eyes averted Jane's blue ones.

"Oh, he's at work. I believe I told you before, didn't I? He's working longer hours now, trying to save some money."

"For going back to that farm?"

"Yes. Although…that's not the only reason. That shooting a couple weeks ago really made him on edge."

"Of course. It can't be easy for him. How many times has he been wounded now? Last I counted, that makes at least five!"

"It's not really the wounds that bother him. It's more…"

Eureka trailed off and looked out at the town square. A small group of children had gathered around the street guitarist, raptured in awe at the vagrant's skills. A hint of some deeper woe shone through her eyes, and her lips quivered.

"…he just wants all of this to stop. And I do, too."

"Wants what to stop?"

"Just people coming back into our lives to torment us, that's what!" she snapped, her voice quaking with anger. "Is living your own life peacefully so wrong? Is being left alone so damn difficult to understand? I just want to stay by Renton's side as his wife and the mother of his children! No more adventures. No more travelling to bloody battlefields, watching friends die, and living in fear. I'm so sick of it all!"

Eureka whipped her head around, a lock of brown hair bouncing as it fell over her shoulder. Her eyes brimming with rare anger and grief.

"I know who sent that assassin after him. But…I can't go back to Russia. Not after nearly losing my life there. It's not fair to me or Renton! I just wish those bastards would just rot somewhere! I wish…!"

"Eureka?"

The Russian girl glanced at Jane and then at her mug she was holding. She was gripping it so tightly that it was nearly about to crack and break from such strength. Eureka released, feeling embarrassed by her impulse.

"Pardon me, Jane. I spoke too strongly."

"No, I understand. Anybody would feel what you're going through if they experienced it themselves."

"Thank you."

"You know, I'm tired of all this too. Watching the newsreels of the war got quite tiring after so many years. Frankly, it's a good thing it's ended now. In Europe, anyway." Jane's finger scratched at the letter, as if it was a bad itch. "Life will go on, somehow, Eureka. Just as it always has. Tell Renton from me to keep his chin up. Everything will be all right. I'm sure of it."

Eureka nodded slowly, gaining back her self-control. They had suffered through hell and more, but they were still alive. Hundreds, no, millions of people around the world were suffering just as much as them. It was best to count their blessings and be glad for another day with the living. That realization count for something. But now Eureka could see that Jane, too, was troubled. She seemed stiff, uncomfortable, as if sitting on a bed of needles.

"Is something wrong, Jane? You shouldn't be sad for us. We've managed to live up to this day, haven't we?"

"No, it's not that. I got some news."

"Bad news?"

"Well…"

Jane revealed the letter, and Eureka read through it. It was as deep a shock as it was to Jane. They had made amends, forgiven each other, and started over fresh. Just when it seemed everything was perfect again, she had to leave. It was a terrible motif for Jane. Always faced with missed opportunities, lost chances, and plain bad luck. She smiled ruefully as Eureka set the letter down, her eyes wide.

"So…I won't be here for much longer."

"I see. Well, at least you can see your home and family again. And your brother is alive, too!" Jane sighed.

"I've lived here for such a long time, Eureka. I've met so many interesting and wonderful people here. You, Anemone, Dominic…and Renton. And now, just when it seems that we can all be friends like we used to, the war ends, and I'm called to come home…"

Her hands curled into fists, wringing out the skirt of her dark blue dress.

"It almost makes me wish the war was still going on, to be honest."

"Jane, don't ever say that!" Eureka said, surprised. "We've all lost countless family and friends. No one should have to live through that again."

"I don't mean I want more people to die. I just wish…this wasn't happening. I don't want to leave you all. Not now! Not when I am still setting things right with everyone!"

"But you've already set things right with us, Jane."

The British blonde stifled a gasp at Eureka's statement. How could this girl still be so friendly with her, after everything? She just did not understand.

"What…?"

"Your actions two years ago, while wrong at the time, were misguided. You didn't know any better and wanted to let your feelings be known to Renton. When I found out, I had every reason to hate you. But I can never bring myself to hate another. Holland says I'm too soft but really, I am just not that type. I knew you were a good person underneath it all and I wasn't able to shut you out. And now that we are talking together, here in this café, I know that we are truly friends."

Eureka reached her hand out to Jane, just like two years ago.

"What happened in the past should stay in the past, Jane Hart. We must keep moving forward and plan out how our futures will be."

Jane, who had her hands clenched, wrinkling her fine dress, felt her muscles relax. But even so, even if Eureka, Renton and those who knew of what passed between them gave clemency, Jane could not help but cry. Who misplaced this angel in the realm of the living? How did she have the patience to be so sweet to everyone she knew?

And most importantly, why did she ever think she could compete with her?

Jane reached out and touched her hand, but a small salty drop left her eyes and she bit back a sob. Slowly, she choked out her words.

"Why? Why…are you so kind to everyone?"

"I'm Eureka Novikova, remember?" Eureka asked with a soft laugh. "Kindness is what I was taught to do."

Jane, lost in both grief at leaving and happiness at having found such wonderful friends, practically broke down. But it was not out of loss. No, it was out of joy. Joy of absolution. Joy from companionship. And joy from having known some of the finest people on God's green earth. Would Father believe any of her stories about them when she came home?

»»»»»

 **May 30** **th** **, 1945**

 **Richmond, California, USA**

Each day that passed by was only harder on Jane, as it meant another day that she would never spend with her friends again. When Renton first heard the news, he was as stunned as Eureka. However, it was something he should have known when the day they met. After all, no war lasts forever, and every refugee must eventually return home when the dust finally settles. So, Renton and Jane spent every moment they could together, binding up the wounds and burying them under the earth of a friendship they had feared was gone.

She never truly realized how blessed she was to have a friend like him. Yes, he never loved her like he did Eureka and their time was always limited. But even if it was all true, their friendship still counted for something. Sometimes, one good friend is more valuable than a short-lived, unrequited romance. She still loved him, but just being near him was enough.

They stood together on the platform of the Oakland railway station, as soldiers decked in green and khaki filed out of arriving trains. The survivors of a terrible war had made it home. Some had lost limbs, some had been traumatized, but they were all alive. It was a sobering, yet uplifting scene as they passed by the two young people.

"These poor men," Jane thought aloud. "Do you think they will be all right?"

"They're alive, Jane," Renton replied. "That's more than can be said for many millions."

"I suppose so, but I still can't help but feel returning to normal life will be difficult."

"I don't doubt it, but I think they will be okay. Do you know why?"

Jane looked at Renton, wearing a simple, bleached white shirt and brown slacks. The knickerbockers she was so accustomed to seeing were gone. The last evidence of his innocence had disappeared. The awkward boy she first met in the school halls had become a man. A man she still could not help but love.

"Because they have loved ones who will take care of them."

The British girl felt her heart stir again, just as it always seemed to do when with the American Russian. Every memory streamed through her consciousness, and each seemed more vivid than the last. The night where passion almost broke their friendship. Renton leaving for Stalingrad. Their days spent on the quiet plot of beach or tucked away in an abandoned corner of the school. Their first meeting.

"How like you to say that," Jane said, smiling lightly.

"It's only the truth, Jane. Having someone there for you, whether it's a friend, a family member, or a love, often makes the difference. I certainly know it did for me."

Jane nodded, and reached out to Renton's sleeve, clutching it lightly like a playful lover would. How was it even possible for them to be standing together, like old friends?

"Who would have thought that we would still be friends after all that love triangle business?" Jane thought aloud again. "It seems like something out of a bad romance novel, wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed! Or a cheesy, cliché romance movie!"

Both teenagers laughed heartily as they continued their stroll down the platform.

"So what is next for you after returning to London?"

Jane thought for a moment, pondering the question. There were so many things to do in order for London to return to its former glory.

"Well, first and foremost, I want to help my family rebuild our home. God only knows how much damage it had to endure after six years of war."

"Of course, but after that? Once everything is back up and running, you must have something planned."

"Something planned…"

Jane closed her eyes, lost in thought. Now that she thought about it, just what did lie ahead of her? She was often too lost in politics of the classroom or her pursuits of Renton to even consider those things. Distraction was one of her persistent habits.

"Perhaps I could do some theater work. Become an actress. I've always admired the people who so boldly go on stage and express their passion in front of a crowd." Renton smiled.

"Well, you certainly have the appearance of an actress."

The British girl's cheeks turned bright red. Even now, even when it was clear Renton was nothing more than her friend, he could still say such romantic things. It almost made her wonder if a relationship between them was ever possible. The question gnawed away at her as they found her platform and sat on a bench.

"Renton, I want to know something. Once you said that you would always be my friend, but tell me: did you ever think we may have had a chance if, say, Eureka was not in the picture?" Renton raised an eyebrow, slightly confused.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean if you knew me, or if you never travelled to Russia, how do you think we would have fared?"

Renton thought a while, wondering if there was ever truly a chance for the if circumstances had been different. He remembered the long, difficult talk he had with her after the business with Chertov had (allegedly) been resolved. However, in another time, in another place…

"It's not like I never thought about it. Nowadays I can't imagine a life without Eureka, but…"

"But?"

"You're a lovely girl, Jane. I like you a lot. We had plenty of things in common. If things were different, I think we would have."

Jane was at first taken aback but it only cemented the reality before her now, as it had been since they met. In the end, he was always chasing after something that Jane could never give. They were of two worlds, two upbringings, two vastly different experiences. But they still sought each other's company and comfort. Like old friends. In truth, that was all she could have hoped for, given her eventual return to England.

"I don't think it would have worked," she said ruefully shaking her head.

"Why not?"

"I would have had to explain you to my father, for one."

The two friends smiled and shared a quiet chuckle between them. To drag him to London or to stay in America would have required a long, difficult, tiring explanation. It was extremely unlikely Jane's parents would have approved, at least, wholeheartedly. Perhaps the chances that a love between the two were not the best, but they still had wonderful shared memories.

"Renton, no matter what problems we may have had in the past, I want you to know this. I never wanted to hurt you, and I always loved you. It took me some time to realize it, but now I know that having a good friend is just as important as having a lover."

She grasped at his hand, hoping that he would understand. She need not have worried, as Renton squeezed her hand affectionately.

"That's very wise of you, Jane. I hope you'll apply that knowledge later in life."

The two friends said nothing but only sat quietly on the bench, enjoying the other's presence until a mournful steam whistle blew, heralding the British girl's departure. Why now? Why could they not just stay at while longer?

The train slowly made its way to the station, almost as if to stall time for the inevitable. Jane wasn't sure if it was the train's smoke that was beginning to make her eyes slightly watery. Dozens of people began to leave from their spots now that they reached their destination.

It was like a quick blur of sorts, watching people coming and going from the train. Watching people go in and out like bees to a hive. Jane automatically stood up from her seat in the bench, with Renton following suit. This was it. The final departure. The grand finale of Jane Hart's life in Bellforest, California.

And what a life it had been. From isolation to popularity to love to heartbreak and finally mending, Jane had lived quite a strange yet beautiful life here. It was such a shame she had to leave behind everyone. A shame to leave behind Renton, her first love. Her first real friend.

"Jane," Renton said kindly, "is it alright if I have your address in London? I'd like to stay in contact with you."

Jane turned around to look at Renton, hiding her true emotions with a small smile. Even after all they've been through, the American Russian still wished to keep in touch.

"Of course, Renton. As do I."

Again, silence. Jane needed to say something, do anything. But what? Time was of the essence!

"Jane, things may have been odd between us at times, but just know that I will never forget you. I'll always remember you as the friend I needed when I was at my lowest ebb. I'll remember everything we did together."

He laced some of his fingers with hers as people shuffled past them.

"I will never forget that you were my best friend."

And that did it. The dam was finally breaking. Jane's blue eyes were clouded with tears. Tears of sadness and happiness. Sadness for leaving behind the home she had made for herself for five years and happiness for being able to regain the friend she feared she would lose forever.

Holding his shoulders in place, Jane stood right in front of him. Without second thoughts to plague her, she tilted her head upwards and the soft touch of her lips to Renton's. A farewell kiss. She soon broke away, and smiled sheepishly.

"Thank you, Renton. And sorry."

Renton was left speechless, but not surprised. To the very end, the very last minute, she loved him. It was not a love destined to be, but it still meant something to her. And in truth, it meant something to him as well. One last kiss was all she needed to finally put it all away. She said nothing as she boarded the passenger car and the conductor blew his whistle. But even after she was in, Renton still did not leave. He too wanted to be with her until the end.

Even as the train slowly inched out, he still walked on the platform, his green eyes locked with her blue ones as she traveled through the car. Why was he not leaving? How long did he intend to stay? Was this a new form of torment?

Just then, Jane remembered something. She finally understood what she wanted to say next. Her eyes never leaving Renton's, Jane expressed another goal in mind.

"This is the next step of my life, Renton. From here on out, I won't dwell on my past mistakes. I'm going to move forward, just like you. I will write to you every now and then. And I'll let you know if I'll become an actress or something much greater!"

All at once, Renton felt pride and shame. Pride that she had chosen to move on as he wanted to. Shame that he could not see her do it. However, there was another feeling that swirled in the tempest of his heart. It was oddly reminiscent of what Holland lectured him about shortly after the news of Dewey's involvement. He refused to confront the issue and move forward. Jane had done that and far more. She was truly moving on in life, something he wished he could do.

Was there some truth to what Holland said?

The train picked up speed as Renton neared the end of the platform. The times he spent with Jane were now racing by faster than an airplane. He stopped short of falling off and waved to the blonde, her head leaning out of the window.

"You've become so strong, Jane. Always remember: don't fear tomorrow and don't cry over yesterday. Live for today!"

"I will!" Jane shouted, tears flowing freely down her face. "I will live for every single day! And you had better do the same!"

He froze and the train whistle blew again. That was all he wanted, but was it even possible with another assassin breathing down his neck? Was he really moving on or just running away again? Was it worth going back to Russia and searching for an aloof brother and solitary madman?

 **Jane Hart (1926-2013)**

 _World War II cost Jane's family much of its wealth, and forced them to sell off their old estates and move permanently to London. While her first love ended sour, she did manage to find another. In 1954 she married a prominent bank president in London and made her life as a secretary. She never forgot the friends she made in America and found time to write to Renton Thurston until her death in 2013._


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: I'm back from California after visiting my grandmother with a new chapter, as promised. I apologize for making everyone wait; it was just so difficult to concentrate with my grandmother's illness hanging over me. I feel much better now after having seen her and the rest of my family still living there. I have a new determination to finish this now, since all of my cousins are really interested in what I've written, and even bought a few copies of my first book, _How to Save a Life_. **

**As of this update, I only have 4-5 chapters left to write, so all the more reason to get back on it and finally bring this long journey to a close. When all chapters have been written, I will let everyone know. Quick to question: once all chapters are written, would you like me to keep this one-chapter-a-week schedule, or speed it up? Feel free to leave your answers in a review.**

 **For now, enjoy this chapter, as this is finally when people start to make their moves, and Renton reaches his final decision on what to do. Will he go on one last adventure, or will he sit this one out?**

* * *

 **Chapter Nine**

 **June 3rd, 1945**

 **Late afternoon, Bellforest, California, USA**

If the Second World War was over, there was no reason to not celebrate. If it was Renton's 19th birthday, it was even more reason to go out and be merry. Even with graduation still looming, and one last final exam to worry about, Renton was not about to be deterred. Eureka was also in high spirits, and wanted to partake in the festivities as well.

It was around five o'clock, the time when the local pharmacy usually closed, and Renton was just closing up shop. One of Renton's old friends and classmates, Matthieu, had stopped by to chat.

"So, birthday boy," he said with a grin, "how's it feel to finally be in your last teenage year?"

"Honestly," he said as he turned the key, locking the door, "not much different. Just want to make me get to 21 faster." Matthieu nodded knowingly.

"Yeah. You finally get to vote. Weird, isn't it? When you hit 18, you're old enough to fight, but not to vote. Makes you wonder why even bother having years 19 and 20 in the first place."

"Biology and mathematics, my friend. So, have you met with your advisor yet?"

"Nah, I'm doing that tomorrow. A little worried, actually; I never gave much thought to life beyond school. What about you?"

Renton sighed heavily in remembrance of his meeting last week. It was…not completely helpful, to put it mildly.

"Yeah, I did. Though I would have preferred not to. I've already decided what to do after graduation."

"Let me guess," Matthieu said, smiling jokingly. "Our American Russian is going to keep the peace in Europe, and serve with our boys to keep those krauts in line?"

"Actually…no. I'm not going to serve. Sorry to disappoint."

Renton stowed the keys in his pocket and the look in his eyes became more leaden, more like stone.

"I've gotten a little tired of being the hero all the time. From now on, I just want to be me."

"I guess you have a better plan than what the advisor gave you, then, right?"

"Right. Truth is, I'm planning on—"

"Oh Renton!" a familiar, feminine voice with a Slavic accent called.

He gazed over behind Matthieu and spotted his fiancée approaching them from across the street. She struck a beautiful figure, wearing a crisp white blouse with frills and a small blue bowtie across her neck. A deep blue skirt seemed to float gracefully in the wind as she crossed. After so many years of hardship and loss, there was not an ounce of pain in her face. Instead she greeted two boys with a smile that would make anyone else fall in love.

Matthieu waved, and nudged Renton jokingly in the shoulder.

"You got yourself a good catch, Ren."

Renton rolled his eyes at the quip. Even at the end, after being together with her for three years, everyone loved to poke fun at their relationship.

"I hope I didn't keep you waiting for too long," Eureka said.

"Hardly. I was just closing up shop."

"Yeah," Matthieu cut in, "just talking about our advisor meetings. So, Eureka, what plans you got today? Anything special for the birthday boy?"

"We were about to go visit Dominic and Anemone. They said they had something to give Renton."

"Sounds like a nice time. Knowing Dom, it will either be a serenade with Anemone on the pipe or soldier's field manual! Have fun, you two!"

Matthieu bid his classmates goodbye and went on his way, leaving the two lovers alone. Renton greeted her with a tight embrace, and detected the faint scent of perfume in her hair. However, as he tried to kiss her cheeks, Eureka gently pushed him back. Despite the warm smile, the glow in her eyes, Renton sensed something was amiss.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothing," she lied, "I just don't want to get my makeup on you."

"Nothing my handkerchief can't fix," he assured, grinning. Eureka's expression became more despondent, like she was hiding something.

"It's different, this time," she said softly, staring at the pavement.

Not appreciative of her secrecy, and hating to see her downcast on this, one of their most special of days, he gently titled her chin up, and could clearly see pain in her face.

"How is it different? What's going on with you?"

Eureka sighed and tucked her dark brown hair behind her ears.

"The truth is I haven't been sleeping well lately. Ever since I found out the truth about what happened last month, I've kept thinking. What if the people we have tried so hard to escape come back? What if they come for me next? But more than anything…"

Her hands curled and wrung wrinkles in her skirt. As she bit her lip and averted her grey eyes from his gaze, she inhaled sharply.

"…I'm wondering if it's even possible to keep avoiding this. I mean…what if Holland is right?"

Having heard enough, Renton gently took her into his arms. Today was not the day for thinking about the past. Today was not the day for grieving and worrying. This was a day of celebration, for both of them. A new future awaited them, bright and joyful. Nothing, not even the worries of his fiancée would be enough to deter him.

Eureka blushed lightly at his touch, and sensed his body trembling in her embrace. Did fears of the future plague him too?

"Nothing is going to happen, Eurekasha. I'm not going anywhere…ever again. I said to you when we left Normandy that I would only look to the future now. And my future is a life here, with you. It's a nice home, an honest day's work, and a new family."

Eureka's eyes welled up at that heartfelt promise. Of course, he would say and believe all of those things, she thought. He had enough of fighting and chasing after the past as well, like her. If he was still resolute about staying, then she had nothing to fear. She gripped Renton's shirt, and buried her face in his chest.

"Thank you so much, my darling. I love you."

"I love you, too. Now let's not keep Dominic and Anemone waiting, shall we?"

The Russian girl nodded and gripped her beau's hand tightly before following him to the residential area. To their old friends' apartment complex, where a long night of festivities awaited them.

»»»»»

 _Knock, knock, knock._

A black-haired boy in a dark green military uniform turned his head and was greeted with the sight of the oak door to his apartment. He did not have to think hard about who it was, as he headed over and bore a wide grin upon turning the knob.

"Glad you could come, birthday boy!" he said as he opened the door to Renton and Eureka. "Come on in, I can't eat all these Ghirardelli chocolates by myself!"

The young couple came in gladly, and joined their comrade, friend and newly inducted officer at a wooden dinner table outside the walk-in kitchen. In the middle of the table sat a ceramic bowl filled with chocolates wrapped in gold paper. Eureka unpacked one, and popped the brown square in her mouth. She was greeted with a sweet, syrupy taste.

"Caramel?" she asked, grey eyes bright.

"Oh, there are more than just caramel. I got every chocolate that I could."

Renton unwrapped another, and took a bite. A bittersweet taste.

"How much did you have to pay to get all of them?" Renton wondered.

"Just three dollars, fifty," Dominic said with a proud grin. "They had a special sale at the candy store for 50 percent off."

"You did well. I'm impressed…second lieutenant."

Renton slyly smiled as he chewed his chocolate while Dominic rubbed the back of his head in slight discomfort. Ever since Dominic won his commission as an officer, Renton never hesitated to address him as such at every opportunity. It was somewhat embarrassing.

"If there should be any celebrations," Renton added, "it should be for you. Everyone has a birthday, but not everyone gets to go to Germany."

"It's just occupation duty…" Dominic tempered, trying not to make much of it.

"All the same," Eureka thought aloud while chewing on a chocolate, "that's quite an accomplishment, Dominic! You should be very proud. You're finally the soldier you always wanted to be."

"Thanks, Eureka. I admit; it's a little hard to believe that I got to this point. I half-expected the war to be over before I put on the uniform."

"So, when do you leave for Germany?"

"Next week. After graduation."

"Wow," Renton said, "Those higher-ups don't waste any time, do they?"

"I could have gone earlier, but I felt it wouldn't have been right, so close to finishing school. Plus…I wanted to spend a little bit of time with Anemone before I left."

"What does Anemone think about it all?"

"She was happy for me of course. Though, I'm sure she's nervous about it just as I am."

Dominic placed his hands on his knees as he sat down with his close friends. Excitement surged within him, as well as worry and doubt.

"Truth be told. I am…worried. I mean, what if I don't return from the war? What if something happened to me. I can't bear to leave Anemone alone. Something like that…haunts me."

"Did you forget the war is over in Europe, Dom?" Renton reminded him, placing down a milk chocolate. "It's not like you're going to the Pacific. You said yourself it's just occupation duty."

"Yes, I know. Still, Ren…I don't know what it'll be like out there. I haven't forgotten what we been through in Normandy. All more the reason why I'm feeling this way."

There was an uncomfortable silence that filled the room, with only a creaking of the floorboards as their company. Eureka lost any more appetite she had for chocolates, and Renton lightly drummed his fingers on the table in anxiety. However, he soon found some words of consolation.

"I still haven't forgotten Normandy, either. One thing I remember very clearly is you were a brave and resourceful soldier. I remember always feeling lucky to have you and Holland fighting with me. That was your first campaign, Dom, and you survived. And with a medal from France, might I add! Not everyone is so fortunate."

Dominic's eyes brightened at his friend's words, realizing he was right. He fought alongside Renton, Holland, Eureka, Talho, and everyone else. They all went through hell and back to liberate France. They didn't know what they were getting into but at the time, it didn't matter. They were fighting together, fighting for the same goal.

"Yeah. I did survive back then."

"And you will survive this next battle, Dominic," Eureka chimed in, encouraging her friend.

"Don't let fear keep you from what you want in life."

"You worked too hard to get that uniform to just toss it away," Renton agreed. "And I know Anemone wouldn't want you to walk away from it now either." Dominic nodded firmly, realizing his mistake.

"You're both right. Sorry about that."

Dominic lifted his head up and looked at the couple sitting in front of him. In truth, he knew they were stronger than he could ever hope to be. They had fought tooth and nail to find one another. Despite constant obstacles nearly spoiling their chances, Renton and Eureka survived it all. They were still alive and that had to count for something.

"Just like how you and Eureka fought for your future, I'll be fighting for mine, too."

The young couple looked briefly at each other, and blushed in embarrassment. To think it was almost three years ago that they reunited in the ruins of Stalingrad was surreal. Indeed, they both braved every horror imaginable to survive to this day. Betrayals, violence, and loss after loss mired their past. But it mattered little, when what lay ahead of them was a future of calm and of peace.

Another loud knock came at the door, and a familiar feminine voice hollered through the oak door frame.

"Dom, open the door, will you?!" shouted a gleeful Anemone. "This cake is heavy!"

Dominic scrambled from his seat and opened the front door to Anemone. She came waltzing in a clean pink spring dress with white accents. She held a giant cake in her hands, big enough to obscure her face as she approached living room.

"Are we having more guests, Anemone?" Renton joked. "That cake is big enough for ten people!"

The cake did look large enough to feed an entire company of soldiers. The cylindrical cake was coated in a blanket of decadent dark chocolate with white frosting spelling out the letters on the top. 19 individual candles circled the words forming a ring of light, while the words congratulated Renton.

 _HAPPY 19th, RENTON THURSTON!_

 _YOU MADE IT TO THE END!_

Anemone placed the cake on the table with a slight clatter from the weight, and stood back. She panted slightly as she sat down next to Dominic.

"Make a wish, birthday boy."

Renton smiled and lightly gripped Eureka's hand underneath the table as he thought about his wish. It felt like an eternity, but it took all but a few moments. He closed his jade eyes, for a fleeting second, he could see the future awaiting him. A renovated farm. A freshly tilled field. Eureka standing on the veranda, looking as beautiful as she ever did. A young child clinging to her dress.

 _I wish my future with Eureka to be long and happy._

Then, with one great force, he blew out the candles in one breath as everyone cheered.

»»»»»

 **Earlier that morning, Bellforest Militia Headquarters**

If there was one thing Holland detested about his closest friend, it was his pigheadedness. When he called to wish a happy birthday, Renton refused to speak. Eureka likewise was not in the mood to talk. Holland could not stop thinking about it. Was he just not family anymore simply because he knew what was at stake? Was he being shunned just for pointing out the reality of the situation? Or was it that Holland's very existence remained them too much of the painful past? Either way, Renton and Eureka had changed since the heated argument that day.

He knew he could not dwell on it forever though. If they wanted to be selfish and not help him, then so be it. He would set out to Moscow on his own. Of course, he could not bring the whole regiment along with him. So, in the early morning hours, he picked out ten soldiers good enough to form a squad. They would assist him during their trip to Russia.

However, one of the members were not too thrilled with the task.

"Permission to speak freely, Lieutenant Novikov?"

Holland turned to face the solider who addressed him. He was a 20-year-old man with light brown hair and dark green eyes. His expression was that of curiosity and doubt.

"Yes, Private Foster?"

"Why would you willingly go back to the same country that almost got you killed? I mean, what's the point in doing anything?"

Holland sighed, not surprised at all with the soldier's concerns. Anyone in his place would also feel apprehensive to travel a very long distance from where they currently were. It was best to be truthful regarding these types of situations.

"Well…you see…I need to look for my oldest brother, Dewey Novikov. He sent assassins after one of my friends, so, I need to know why."

After learning the reason, the brown-haired soldier scoffed and shook his head.

"That's it? That's why we are leaving Bellforest?"

Holland, disliking Foster's tone, glared softly at him. It was bad enough that he was being rejected by his future brother-in-law and little sister. He did not want his own troops to reprimand him.

"Is there a problem, soldier?"

"To be honest, sir, I think you're mighty stupid for going back to that place. We already have enough trouble to deal with here without going off on some wild goose chase. Soon, the Japs will get what's coming to them. Why should we go after some psychopath that's far away from here? The Militia's place is here, nothing more and nothing less."

Getting irritated by the soldier's rambling, the Lieutenant approached him, as other soldiers watched in astonishment and worry over a fight breaking out.

"Private Foster," Holland demanded, "You can disagree with my reasons, but I am the one who gives orders, here. I expect you to follow them. We are going to Russia, whether you like it or not."

The Russian hoped his intimidation would set the lad straight. He hoped that Foster would cease his complaints and the conversation would stop from there. Of course, the other would not let up so easily and had more heated choice of words to say.

"Bite me, you jackass! I'd rather go to a bar and find a broad than get my ass killed because of your blood feuds. If you want to go back, go there your—!"

Not taking any more backtalk, Holland raised an open palm and slapped Foster's mouth shut. The impact was strong enough make the other stumble on his feet.

"Say another thing to me, and watch what happens."

Foster touched his cheek and looked at Holland with shock. However, the shock slowly turned to rage as his eyes flared and his whole face turned red.

"Now, either you return to your position, or we can do this the hard way and—!"

Holland didn't get to finish his sentence as Foster furiously tackled him into the ground. The other soldiers watched in horror and wonder as the two men grappled with each other.

Foster slammed his fist against his lieutenant's cheek and right eye. Holland retaliated with a hard knee to his opponent's back. Once that stunned him, the Russian grabbed his face and planted it on the ground. Foster flailed his arms around to scratch out Holland's face but to no avail.

One of the recruits tried to hold Holland back, grabbing his arms and pushing away from Foster.

"Please, sir, stop this!"

The black-haired teenager simply ignored his comrades as he pushed them aside.

"Stay out of it, men!"

Foster took this distraction as soon as possible and kicked one of Holland's shins, forcing him back on the ground on his injured knee, groaning as he went down. However, he wasn't entirely out of the fight just yet. Foster quickly combined the combo with another strong punch. Holland dodged it and elbowed his opponent in the nose. The private was now writhing on the dirt ground, holding his nose together as he swore and shouted in pain.

Talho wasted no time in stopping the two men from killing each other. She ran to the scene and attempted to stop the fight. With all her strength, she grabbed at her boss' shoulders, forcing him off Foster.

"Holland, stop! He's not worth our time."

"Don't interfere, Sergeant! I want to teach this prick a lesson!"

The soldiers who were watching the fight, offered to help Foster on his feet. However, he wanted none of their support. Pride got the best of him and he lashed out at his superior again.

"How do we know you're not working for your psychopath brother, huh!? You're probably a spy from the Soviet Union for all we know!"

At the mere accusation alone, Holland shot a look at Foster. As soon as his icy blue eyes stared at the other's face, what he saw was not Foster. It was _his_ face. It was Dewey's face. His grey hair and lightly colored eyes staring right back at him with the same contempt as Foster. That sickening smirk, those callous eyes.

And at that very moment, Holland lost all logical reasoning. His rage boiled over into something dangerous and fearsome. He yanked away from Talho's grasp and charged toward the smart mouthed soldier. The other man did not stand a chance as he was slammed into the wall and punched across the face.

"Stop taunting me! Stop laughing at me! Stop trying to kill me! Stop hurting me!"

One, two, three, four punches in a row. If he kept this up, he would most likely kill the poor man. However, before Holland could deliver the fifth and final punch, a strong arm stopped him. The black-haired lieutenant looked back and saw Volkov's hardened, enraged face staring right back at him.

»»»»»

 **Three hours later**

After successfully defusing the intense altercation between Lieutenant Novikov and Private Foster, Colonel Volkov wasted no time in getting to the bottom of the madness that was outside his headquarters. From the many months that he has worked for him, Holland was a diligent young man who was respectable towards everyone. He wasn't afraid to report flaws or be firm with his troops. He was a hard worker with sharp wit. To see him now was like looking at a wild animal let loose at a zoo.

His surprise and disappointment in the lad was more visible by the harsh tone of his aged voice.

"That was uncalled for, even for you!" Volkov shouted, pacing back and forth in his office.

Holland had no right to sit down for what he did. He was forced to stand up like a stiff statue as he listened to his superior's reprimanding against him. His face was red with embarrassment and exhaustion.

"How are we supposed to boost morale and welcome new recruits if you beat them into submission? How are we going to strengthen our forces with you starting a fight club?! I can understand if the stress is getting to you, but show some dignity at least. Half of the Militia is looking up to you. YOU are supposed to be the example, so act like it! That shouldn't be too hard to understand."

Holland, slowly nodded, too ashamed to try and state a reason for his violent behavior. There was clearly no excuse for it no matter how much he wanted to justify it.

"I am very sorry, sir."

The much older man sighed heavily and sat down on his chair. He picked up some papers and shuffled them up neatly.

"No need for that. Just get out of here and get some rest. I am sending you off on a one-day probation."

Holland's eyes widened. As if this day couldn't get any worse from here!

"What? B-but sir, please reconsider. I-!"

His boss shot him a deathly glare, wordlessly threatening Holland to not to say another word to him.

"You heard me, Lieutenant," Volkov ordered. "Go home and cool off. We don't need train wrecks to compromise our work. You are dismissed."

At this point in time, Holland was too tired to argue, especially not with the militia colonel. He was also still feeling the bruises from that stupid squabble as well. The black eye he received still stung, thanks to Foster's accurate punch. With a quick salute and a turn of his boot, the dejected lieutenant left Volkov's office quietly. Today was not kind to Holland Novikov. Not in the slightest.

»»»»»

 **That Night**

Spending time alone in an apartment can give one pause on many things. Life, one's place in it, the future, and the veracity of one's own plans. For Holland, the time spent alone in the apartment, with only the whistling wind past the windows and the low hum of the bedroom air conditioner for company made him think long and hard about just what was the cost of going to the Soviet Union. Private Foster had a point: Holland was almost killed trying to escape. He was now an enemy of the state, destined for the Gulag or execution or worse should he return. Stalin and the Party were not the most forgiving people in the world. And even if he didn't like it, their help was still needed to defeat Japan.

What was the point of a wild goose chase?

"Blyad'," Holland cursed quietly in his native tongue, "shto ya delayu?" (A/N: Fuck, what am I doing?)

He turned over on the bed and stared at the air conditioner mounted on the upper wall. A cool breeze swept over him, relieving and tormenting him at the same time. He was suddenly transported to Siberia, hiding in a half-frozen boxcar to avoid the NKVD. A chill ran across his body at the memories. The nights spent on the streets alone and hungry. The cold, damp bowels of a ship unknowingly carrying him to freedom.

The haunting, hanging stare of Mikhail's dead eyes behind broken glasses.

He pounded his fist on the mattress in frustration and growled. Just thinking about everything made him feel sick, as sick as when he thought he saw Dewey in the face of Private Foster.

"Dewey, pochemu tiy delayesh' eta k nam?" (A/N: Dewey, why are you doing this to us?)

It was not just Holland he was hurting by this cloak-and-dagger nonsense. Renton and Eureka had both retreated from everything in the aftermath, refusing to see, hear, and engage. This was what he wanted. To isolate them all, to leave them all vulnerable to the next assassination or whatever was planned. It was more reason to find out just what his brother was planning. But at the same time…

Why bother? Russia was so far away. Was it even possible that Dewey remembered Renton at all? He never did interact much with him on his first visit as a child. At the battle of Stalingrad Dewey was absent. He never took the time to write him, either. Was Dewey even alive?

A door creaked open outside the bedroom. A jingling of keys followed a swift close and a light, feminine sigh. Talho.

"Holland, are you home?"

"D-da, ya zdyes'…" he said, somewhat regrettably.

A soft thud and a closing of the closet door heralded Talho arrival into the bedroom, finding her beau staring into space, lost in depression and defeat. She sighed again, and brought him up to speed on the situation back at the militia office.

"Foster was consigned to the stockade for a few hours to cool off. He wouldn't stop ragging on about you and your… 'wild goose chase,' as he called it."

Talk about cold comfort. He was suspended like a bully who got too rough on the school grounds while the soldier was put in time out. And over what? Talho's tone grew more resentful, as if speaking to a badly-behaved child.

"I thought your street brawling days were over and done with! If you can't calm the hell down, you won't find any answers when we go to Russia. You turn away your sister and future brother-in-law and now you sock a recruit in the face when he asks questions?"

"Stop it. Don't you think I've been chewed out enough already? I am just afraid. It seems like no one is with me on this. Eureka, Renton, and now the Militia is against me. Selfish, the lot of them…"

Holland's fist hit the mattress again, more forcefully this time.

"I point out the reality of the situation, and they act like I pissed on their heart carved tree! I knew Renton would have a stick up his ass but I thought Eureka would have little more sense."

The hazel-eyed sergeant remained firm in her response. She knew that her lover was suffering, but at the same time, she was not going to let him wallow in his own selfish pit of misery.

"Renton and Eureka have both been through hell these last few years. You should know that! I can understand why they don't want to go to Russia either."

"…of course you agree with them, too. I thought you were on my side in this…" Talho groaned at her beau's self-pity.

"This is not about sides, mudak! Look at you! You're a complete mess. With the way you are now, you are scaring people!"

"Well, if they intend on staying in their bubble of ignorance, I couldn't care less!"

"Holland, stop it!" Talho criticized.

"We're all fucking scared here!" Holland snapped.

Abrupt silence filled the room. Talho looked at her feet, the long bangs of her hair concealing her tired and aggravated expression. Holland sighed again, gaining some composure. He did not mean to shout, but his bottled-up emotions of despair and rage were rearing their ugly heads. His eyes glanced at his only confidant in the room, asking for clemency. The last thing he wanted was to push away Talho…again.

"Sorry…"

Talho touched his shoulder, assuring him. He slowly reciprocated, reaching a hand to hers and grasped it.

"I said I would protect my family. By taking a stand and looking for the truth, I thought I would save all of us from more trouble. We wouldn't have to keep fighting anymore after this."

"I believe that, too."

"That's just what I am afraid of."

Talho looked over at her superior and her lover, and saw him in a place not seen in a long time. His dazed eyes traced lines in the ceiling, meandering trails leading nowhere. The dark unkempt hair betrayed every conflict swirling in his heart now. It was a place she remembered; the state in which she first met him. Alone, desperate, and lost.

At that moment, there was a slight sense of guilt on Talho's end. She was an only child, so, she could never imagine the kind of sorrow her lieutenant was going through right now. To learn about one's own brother plotting against the family seemed too much to fathom at that moment. She would not know what to do if she was put into such a situation.

"It looks like it is just you and me who want to solve this mystery now. And if we solve it, I don't know what happens afterwards. If I survive, I live with you, and the small family I have left. But do I have the right to that kind of life? Me, the man who killed, betrayed his country, and cheated and stole my way to get here?"

Before Talho could respond, there was a knock at the door. A muffled feminine voice, with a Slavic accent. Talho left him still on the bed to answer, and found it to be the former Soviet agent responsible for unearthing the secret behind Renton's attempted assassination.

"Agent 340! I didn't expect to see you here!"

"Please Sergeant, you can call me Nadia. That name doesn't mean anything to me now."

"Oh, all right, then. What brings you here, Nadia?"

With a welcoming gesture, Talho invited the blonde woman inside her home. Nadia politely thanked her as she stood in the living room.

"I think you and Thurston will need my guidance if you're going back to Russia. Is it possible to buy an extra ticket for me?"

Holland quietly laughed to himself at the question and called out into the hallway.

"You shouldn't have a problem. The American Russian isn't coming along this time."

Nadia's eyes widened slightly at the revelation. She approached the bedroom, and saw the legs of Holland sprawled out on the mattress.

"Thurston refused? Why?"

"Who knows? He just told me he was tired of all this and then I never hear from him. Eureka is not keen on going either."

The former assassin looked down on the carpet floor in thought. In a similar fashion, she was stuck in that mindset of stubbornness two years ago; not wanting to get involved with her mission as necessary. Not wanting to live with being the center piece to the murder of a 16-year-old boy.

"I see. How unfortunate."

"We both tried to convince him," Talho explained, "but he wants no part of it. I can't say I blame him. I wouldn't want to get involved after three years of violence."

"If it's alright with you," Nadia suggested. "Perhaps I can try talking to Thurston."

"You?" Holland thought aloud. "What can you say that we haven't?"

Nadia smiled at Holland with a wry wit.

"Well, I'm sure you remember me being one of his assassins two years ago. We both have a connection to Chertov, much to our dismay. I think he would understand better if I approached him."

"You can go ahead and try," Holland shrugged. "But, don't be surprised if you receive a slammed door to your face."

"Never hurts to try, Holland Petrovich. It may mean more if it comes from me."

Talho offered her to stay for dinner but Nadia politely refused. She had to find the best opportunity to speak to Renton. With a closing of the door, Talho returned to the room, finding Holland still looking up at her. A slight glimmer of hope stood in his eyes, faint enough to be indistinguishable.

"If she can't make him see reason, no one will," Holland reflected.

"Maybe so…"

He turned away, looking back up at the air conditioner in the wall. There might be a chance. But if not, it meant they would go on with or without Renton or Eureka. It was a sad time to contemplate Renton not standing and fighting. Him, of all people, who fought tooth and nail to reach the end of this long war.

Talho sat back on the bed and grasped at her lover's hand. Despite her initial shock and anger over Holland's attitude, she still cared about him. She wanted him to succeed. He may have been a fool, but he was her fool nonetheless.

"…But, for right now, let's just prepare ourselves for the day. We can mope and sulk about our futures afterward. Right?"

Holland sighed, but did not wrench away from her grasp. Instead, he softly acquiesced.

"You got it."

»»»»»

 **June 5** **th** **, 1945**

 **Mount Tamalpais High School, Bellforest, California, USA**

For them, it was the end of a long, sad chapter in their lives. After this ceremony, there would be no more war. No more killing. No more adventures for a very, very long time. He was happy with that, as was she. Neither of them wanted to fight anymore. Not even _for_ something. Once they had graduated, he could start the life he always dreamed of living.

But even so, a little voice of doubt nagged at him, reminding him of how others had chosen to move on. Jane accepted her past, and chose to learn from it in the future. Holland still doggedly chased after shadows of the past, determined to find closure.

In an empty classroom, Renton sat on his old desk, remembering his days in school before and after he had achieved renown. The days of silent torment worrying for Eureka, enduring ostracizing from classmates. The days helping Eureka adjust to life in America. The quiet, soft moments together in between classes. A kiss behind the lockers. A sweet whisper when walking out the door. And all the while trying to keep their engagement a secret. Somehow they managed, even when the assassination caused problems.

Renton sighed, wringing his graduation robes, blue with gold ribbons. He did not want to be reminded of that terrible incident when the past reared its ugly head. No, nothing would convince him to go back into that hell. Not again.

As he tried to put the bad thoughts away, and soft series of footsteps greeted him. A pair of dainty feet in black ballet flats came into his vision, with the blue hems of a graduation robe. He looked up and was delighted to find Eureka standing before him. Her robes hid everything, but she was still the most beautiful girl in his eyes.

"Privyet, Rentoshka," she said in almost a whisper. "Are you ready for today?" Renton nodded resolutely.

"And finally move forward? You better believe I am. It almost seems impossible to believe that this part of our lives is over."

"It's going to be a little strange not getting up at the crack of dawn and rushing to school after this. I am almost used to you shaking me out of bed in a hurry!"

The couple shared a quiet laugh at the memory. Eureka always was a heavy sleeper, and waking get her up could be a struggle. At least that part of their routine was done now.

"When we get to the farm," he promised, "I'll let you sleep until noon if you want." Eureka blushed lightly at his vow.

"I will hold you to that," she said with a mischievous grin on her face.

He wanted to say something good more, but was interrupted by Eureka taking both of his hands in her own. Those hands were so delicate. Soft, like a velveteen pillow. How was it that through the firestorm of war and heartache, her hands seemed so clean, so pure? He could not hope to answer.

"Renton, moy lyubov," she whispered, "thank you so much."

"For what?"

"For always walking by my side. For showing me the way when I felt lost. But most importantly, for making me the happiest woman on this earth. I want nothing more than to stay with you for all time."

Renton could only smile as he rested his forehead on hers. For her to still stand before him, after every hardship they endured, was nothing short of miraculous. Was she a girl or an angel?

"After this, we'll be together always. It's a promise."

They stood there in the empty room with only themselves for company and the distance to chattering outside. This was the beginning. The beginning of a new life. Why on earth did he even think of traveling back to Russia, back to the past, if it meant to give a moment like this up?

"Hey, Romeo and Juliet! It's time!"

Renton could only mumble in embarrassment as he stood up from his desk. Eureka followed him out of the classroom as she giggled at her beau's reaction. They may have been just out of high school, but, that didn't stop their classmates from cracking jokes at the pair. To them, they would always be the same love birds from three years ago.

The graduation ceremony began at last. This was the final push out of high school. The cornerstone of academic success. It was the end of an old journey and the start of a new beginning for all the students in Mount Tamalpais High School.

»»»»»

At the midpoint in the ceremony, a student stood in his blue robes at the podium, addressing a large amphitheater filled with friends, family, and neighbors. They had all come to see the class off on their final day as students. But for now, their focus was on a renowned hero of the class. A boy who made his mark on the fields of battle in the war. He was given the honor of making the keynote address to his class.

"It truly has been a momentous four years. When I first set foot on this campus, the world looked very different, and things all around looked very grave. Europe had been crushed by fascism. Russia was struggling to hold back the German tide. Italy was poised to seize the entire Mediterranean and carve a new Roman Empire. In the Pacific, Japan had seized China and southeast Asia, and was poised to threaten India and Australia. Just two weeks before my first Christmas break, Pearl Harbor was bombed, and 2,400 Americans were killed in a coldblooded surprise attack."

Renton Thurston took a deep breath as he looked at the view from where he was standing. He looked over his teachers and classmates, all of whom taught him so many things.

"1941 was a harrowing year of desperation and defeat. But now, in 1945, the tables have completely turned. Europe is free from tyranny at last. Nazism and fascism have been crushed. Hitler and Mussolini are dead. Japan now stands alone, and I feel confident in saying it won't be long before it, too, surrenders. How do I know this?"

Renton reached for one of his pockets and produced a piece of paper.

"Well, funny you should ask. I received a letter from my father just two days ago. He has been with the Marine Corps since the day war was declared. He wrote to me from Okinawa saying, quote: Son, there is a feeling of hope amongst the boys. We all think Hirohito has no more cards to play. I can't say for certain, but I think I will be coming back home to you and your brother soon."

Placing the letter back in his pocket, the American Russian continued.

"My friends, the road from defeat to victory has been a long and arduous one. So many innocent lives have been thrown away. All of us here have lost family and friends in this terrible war. I pray to God that the day of final victory is not far off.

"As I'm sure you all know, I and some of my classmates have taken part in this war personally. I've stood freezing in the snow-covered streets of Stalingrad, and hid with French partisans in Normandy. I have seen for myself what war truly is and I have felt for myself the immense pain this war has caused. I have experienced the sacrifices everyone here has made for this war. The end is at last here, and it is only a shame it could not come sooner.

"The war is over, but an even tougher struggle for us lies ahead. As our soldiers return home, and the guns fall silent, there is a new battle to be waged. This battle won't be fought with tanks or planes. It will be fought and won by our bare, calloused hands, and through compassion and understanding.

"When I look back on how this war began, I see it as aggressors challenging the world to ask this question: who is the strongest? Germany, Italy, and Japan thought they were the strongest nations in the world. Their leaders would often preach to cheering masses how their peoples were unconquerable. Germans were the 'master race' who feared no one. Italians were the descendants of Rome, and could be great again. Japanese saw their emperor as God himself, and no one could defeat them when fighting for God. To the Axis Powers, strength was determined by military might. By who had the biggest armies, the best weapons, and how much land they could conquer.

"The Allies answered the question of strength by bringing together many peoples united only by a single idea. That idea, my friends, is liberty. No number of weapons and no army, no matter how large, can snuff out that idea. It is the idea that inspired our forefathers to fight for independence. It is the idea that ended slavery. When this war is written in the history books, it will be remembered as the time when all the peoples of the world arose in one voice and shouted, 'Tyranny is fleeting, but liberty is eternal.'

"For me, my postwar world is one of peace and no more fighting. It is a place not far from here, where fields of wheat roll like waves lapping on the shore. Where an old farmhouse and barn stand tall despite years of neglect. I will rebuild my life with my own two hands. Now, what about you?

"To you, I say live with dignity, pride, and respect, but live for yourselves. Make your own life something to be proud of. Live for today, without weeping over yesterday or fearing tomorrow. But above all, live with respect for the fallen by keeping the peace for which we fought so hard and won.

"Do not expect anyone to come help you; the life you create will be one of your own making. If you ever think the work is too much, and the stress too great, you are looking at the exits and not the main road. You are missing the sign posts up ahead that say 'next stop: a bright future.' Live for yourselves, and live for those who no longer live. Be free, be happy, and above all, seize the day every day!"

After Renton's uplifting and epic speech, every single person took a standing ovation. They would never had believed that a boy of 19 years would ever invoke such an impression with a powerful speech as that. Even Eureka was completely floored by his heartfelt testimony.

In Eureka's eyes, he stood majestically behind the podium, looking onward like an ancient statue of a warrior from the times of old. This was the same boy who rescued her from the darkest days of Stalingrad. The same boy who welcomed her to Bellforest. The same boy who became her first love.

Once the rousing commotion died down, Renton left the podium and returned to his spot. He noticed Eureka's proud smile from a couple of seats away.

The graduation ceremony continued, with performances from the school choir, band, and the cheerleader squad. There was a sense of reverence to the proceedings, as all were thankful for the end of a brutal war.

Finally, the principal called up each student to present the diploma. The certificate of the end of childhood and the beginning of adulthood. When Renton's name was called, a rousing cheer, long and loud, reverberated through the amphitheater. It persisted long after he returned to his seat.

At last, the entire class stood up as the principal dismissed them for the last time. With a turning over of their tassels and a toss of their caps, the whole amphitheater was deafened with the cheers and shouts of jubilant students. A chapter of their lives was over. A chapter that coincided with one of the more transformative chapters of their country.

The students filed out, and Renton and Eureka were looking forward to heading home and a night of jubilee. But a familiar face from their past cast those plans to the ash bin.

"Nadia…what…?"

"Hello, Renton Thurston. Congratulations on your graduation." Nadia smiled kindly towards the pair.

"Th-thank you," Renton replied hesitantly, unsure of why she was here. He didn't remember telling her about the graduation.

Nadia's smile didn't fade when she looked to Eureka.

"And you must be Eureka Novikova, Renton's fiancée," she said, extending a hand towards the girl. "Pleased to meet you as well."

Eureka took the hand and shook, though she was still confused with who the woman was.

"Yes, likewise...miss..."

"Nadia Shevtsova. If you don't mind, may I take a few minutes of your time?"

It seemed a harmless request to them. At least, at that moment, it did. The former secret police officer and assassin pulled the couple aside, pushing through the throngs of students and faculty. Renton would occasionally be stopped with more congratulations.

After some effort, they finally managed to find a quiet corner away from the school amphitheater. Renton was now apprehensive and the mood was souring. What was all of this about?

"I don't mean to be rude, Nadia," he prefaced, "but what do you want with me?"

"I just wanted to let you know that I will be going with Lieutenant Novikov to Russia. The ship will be on its way in three hours."

At the mention of Holland, Eureka looked at her robes and her shoes. Renton saw it as his cue to shoo the woman away.

"I see. Well, for what's it worth, thanks for—"

"And I believe it would behoove you to join us."

Renton had had enough, and any amiable sentiment he had was gone, along with his patience. This was outrageous, bordering on harassment! What was so hard to understand about his reasons not to go?

"I have said over and over we're not going. I'm sick and tired of repeating myself to people! Did Holland put you up to this?" Nadia remained composed.

"No, I came here of my own accord. I'm just telling you for your own good. We could be gone for weeks, months even. Do you really think you can live with yourself if your dearest friend is gone for heaven knows how long?"

Eureka said nothing as she watched Renton's frustrated reaction. It was quite clear that he was ready to chew the woman out and make her leave.

"I don't care what happens to him," Renton lied. "If he wants to get himself killed for nothing, that's his business. I don't have to return to that country. It's not fair for me to have to relive all of the mistakes or poor decisions I've made three years ago."

Nadia's eyes narrowed slightly, completely disappointed with Renton's words.

"I suppose that your little speech was just a big lie, then? Was all that talk about compassion and understanding just hot air?"

Renton's eyes flared with anger.

"What?!"

"Millions of people have to live with their experiences and mistakes every single day. What makes you any different?" Nadia sighed heavily and continued. "Do not think that you are the only one suffering either. Holland is going through just as much pain as you are. A while ago, he had a meltdown at the Militia office. He was punished with a one-day probation. Do you not realize the sorrow and anguish he must feel? Don't you think he deserves a right to know why his own brother would betray him?"

"W-well…" Renton stuttered, trying and failing to retaliate.

Both graduates remained silent as they ran out of rebuttals for Nadia. As she looked over to them, hesitation was visible in their faces. Hesitation, doubt, but most of all, fear.

"I can't force you to go," Nadia said. "All I ask is to be a little more reasonable. You will never be able to move on with your life unless you find the answers you seek. Keep lying to yourself and you will regret it for all of your days."

Having said more than enough, Nadia turned on her heel and began to walk away. She left the stunned couple to ponder what they were told.

At that moment, Renton came face to face with the truth, the truth he so desperately sought to avoid. Holland has always been there for him, no matter how dangerous the situations were. He had supported him when he was at his most vulnerable and even nearly died for him. It did not occur to Renton how much his future brother-in-law did for him until now. For all his stubbornness and persistence, Holland Novikov always had Renton's best interests at heart.

Why did it take so long for him to understand his friend's pain? Why did it take so long for him to see that he wasn't being a good friend to him in return?

"Lectured by my former assassin..." Renton thought aloud. "That's really hitting below the belt..."

Eureka grasped her lover's hand and looked at him with scared, almost watery eyes. It was clear that Nadia's words left an impact on her. Now, like Renton, she was also conflicted with what her heart was telling her to do.

"All I've ever wanted was to live quietly, but…how is living in ignorance going to achieve that? Oh, God…Renton...I don't know what to do anymore..."

The oak brown-haired boy brought Eureka close to his chest, embracing her with gentle, comforting hands.

"I don't know either, darling. But if the ship is leaving in three hours, we have limited time."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:** Chapter nine was the tipping point, but ten is when people start to get moving. It's now make or break for Renton and Eureka, and they have to decide whether to stay on the sidelines or take part in one last adventure. The last campaign will be bloody and there will be no shortage of losses, but there will be some moments for sweetness as well. A bit of warning for this chapter: there is some sensuality, but it doesn't dip into NSFW territory. However, readers under the age of 16 should tread with caution.

Read on and enjoy!

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

 **June 5** **th** **, 1945**

 **San Francisco docks, USA**

As Holland looked on at the small squad of soldiers boarding the Lend-Lease ship, he could not help but wonder just how far they had come, and how far some of them had fallen. To think he had traveled the world and had seen some of the greatest places on earth was astounding to contemplate. He had seen France, visited Paris, and lived in America after traipsing through his native Russia. However, there was still a sense of melancholy amongst the troops, and in his own heart.

Renton had vehemently refused to accompany him to Russia and aid in his search for Dewey. Eureka likewise stood by her man. Many soldiers did not even know the worth of their mission. For some, it was merely a personal vendetta of their superior officer. They were dragged along in the pursuit of a brother who was probably not even alive. Holland himself wondered if that was possible, and this whole chase was for naught. But it was not knowing that worried him more. It was being alone that troubled him more.

In the end, he should have known Renton would resist from the start. What else would he do, after three years of constant combat and bloodshed? He still remembered how they talked over and over again on the long trip home from Normandy about their future plans. How Renton would marry Eureka at the end of the war, and go back to his old farm. The dream he had coveted so long was snatched away when the assassination happened.

And so he refused to even acknowledge the threat, even going so far as to shut Holland out of his 19th birthday party. He sighed heavily, knowing there was nothing more he could do. Perhaps in the end, it was understandable. Anyone would want to turn away after a long and destructive war.

So be it. He would be alone this time, with just a squad of 10 soldiers and Sergeant Talho Yukieva for company. Talho, who despite joining Holland, did not press either Renton or Eureka to join. She didn't blame them for wanting to stay. She once felt like running away from everything after Denisov's death.

"It's finally happening, isn't it, Holland?" Talho asked her beau. "How are you feeling?"

"I've been better," he muttered, watching the soldiers climb up the gangway to the ship. "I just didn't think it would turn out like this."

"Life happens in mysterious ways. We can't always get what we want, you know."

The hazel eyed sergeant placed a soft hand on Holland's shoulder.

"Come on, walk with me to the ship. We don't want to keep our men waiting."

Holland was reluctant at first. There was a forlorn hope that maybe, just maybe, they would reconsider. Ultimately it took Talho leading him by the arm to the gang plank. She had expected this. And she still held no grudge. As he stomped his boot on the first step, another group joined the soldiers at the dock.

"Hey..." called out the voice that was far away.

Holland and Talho turned around to figure out who that was.

"Hey! Wait for us!" shouted a boy of oak brown hair, running towards the ship with a girl with lighter brown hair following close behind.

Both were holding suitcases and were sprinting straight towards the docks like Olympic marathon runners. Holland's eyes nearly popped out of their sockets at the sight of them running. He hoped he wasn't just seeing things, a mirage from the stress and frustration. No, they could not have changed their minds so easily. What arguments did Nadia lay out that convinced the stubborn couple?

"No, it can't be..."

Renton, wearing a white shirt and brown slacks with shoes to match, was trotting like a race horse to reach to the port and make it to the ship to Russia. Eureka, his future wife, followed him closely, wearing a pink sleeveless blouse and a long white skirt and black shoes. Sweat was visible on both of their foreheads, as they puffed and panted to reach their friends and family. How far did they run?

"It's really them, Holland!" Talho thought out loud.

"Y-yeah, it is…" Holland managed with shock in his voice.

Renton grabbed his knees and heaved a heavy breath, dropping his suitcase. His white shirt was soaked in sweat, meaning he had run a fair distance. How did they even manage to find the right dock?

"Are...are we late?"

"No," Talho said with a wry smile. "You're just in time."

Eureka finally released a long sigh of exhaustion before standing up to look straight at her brother.

"You...you win, Holland."

"What?" Holland asked, still bewildered.

"You were right all along, my friend," Renton said, somewhat reluctantly. "I was just running away from everything. Both of us were. What you said to us back in the office was true. We just didn't want to face the truth."

"It was wrong of us to shut you out," Eureka continued sincerely. "At the end of the day, we are still family. We need to stay together. And Dewey is our brother too." Renton nodded in agreement.

"We never should have shunned you and I was a jerk for not inviting you to my party. You are my oldest friend, Holland. You've always been there for me, so now, I will return the favor."

Holland was stunned, not just at the sudden change of tone, but just how everything had fallen into place. It all came together rather haphazardly at the end, granted. At least Renton still had some fight left in him. He still was the same brave boy who came to Stalingrad in the dead of winter and who led them through Normandy. At the end of it all, some things about his best friend never changed one bit.

"Well, it certainly took you two long enough," Holland smirked. "Now let's go find our idiot brother, eh?"

"Yeah, let's." Renton and Eureka respond in unison.

They walked up the gangways to the deck of the freighter together, helping each other when they stumbled. In the end that was all it ever was; a stumble on the long road to a final victory. It was only natural to turn away, but in the end, Nadia was right. One could only hide from the truth for so long. Eventually, when a threat stared at them in the face, it was impossible to avoid forever.

On the deck of the ship, Nadia looked down over the gangway, smiling. Dressed in her old NKVD uniform, she too was facing old demons, demons she would rather leave locked away. But she knew too that there was more to this than the petty vendetta of Chertov. Something else was directing all of this. The truth had to be known, one way or another.

At the top of the gangway stood another former assassin who turned away from a life with the blood of innocents on her hands. She greeted Renton with a warm smile and a respectful salute. Renton was understandably puzzled, not remembering meeting another who turned on Chertov. He always thought Nadia acted alone.

"It's good to finally meet you, American Russian," she said, extending a hand to him. He shook it somewhat hesitantly, trying to discern who she was.

She was rather young, at least in her 20s, looked to be Asian, with a tanned complexion and straight, short black hair. The girl stood roughly at his height, and her dark eyes had a strange earthly quality to them, witnesses to many hot days spent on the summer steppes. Renton slowly responded to the girl, slightly bewildered.

"The feeling is mutual, miss…?"

"Oh, that's right, we never met, did we? I worked with Nadia in the squad of assassins under Chertov two years ago."

"Then I take it you betrayed him too, like Nadia."

"Yes, I did. We worked together to ensure his capture."

"In that case, I am glad to have you with us, miss…?"

The girl released her hand from his and pressed it to her heart.

"My code number was 271. My real name is Roza. Roza Aliyeva."

"I'll never understand why the secret police have to adopt code numbers. Still, I am glad to know you're with us, Roza."

Indeed, for where they were going, every bit of help was needed. The Soviet Union would be treacherous, and none of them really knew how deep this conspiracy went. However, it was the best place to find answers. Nadia and Roza would have their own parts to play.

»»»»»

 **June 10** **th** **, 1945**

 **Vladivostok harbor, USSR**

The ship breezed through the Pacific Ocean with no major incidents. The Soviet Union was still technically at peace with Japan, but evidence of the changing situation was clear as Nadia walked through the busy streets to a nearby post office. Red Army soldiers had just arrived from the West, and she saw a few T-34 tanks being unloaded off of flatcars from a nearby train station. Soon the war would be on Japan's front door. Hopefully, the overwhelming power of the Red Army would force a capitulation. Whenever the final blow was struck.

The entourage of Americans and Russians were left at the docks while Nadia figured the best way to start the search for answers. In her mind, the best place to go was the capital. The center of Russia and the Soviet Union. Moscow.

The very name brought back memories for the former State Security agent. When she was last in that majestic city, she was in line for the NKVD entrance exam. One of the youngest cadets to apply, the large city mesmerized and captivated her. To visit her old stomping grounds brought a pang of nostalgia with a hint of worry. Undoubtedly, there will be those who know of her long absence and have questions. She and Roza would have to be prepared.

The bell rang atop the door frame as she walked in, looking to approach the telegraph office. However she felt a hand on her shoulder, and every muscle tensed up. Did someone already find them out? But who? Was there a double agent in their group?

"Agent 340," a familiar voice asked, "is it really you?"

Nadia turned around and saw a man a year older than herself. He had dark, raven hair and eyes to match. He was smartly dressed with a light brown uniform that complimented the summer heat. His face was round, with a scar at the center bridge of his nose.

Nadia's eyes almost popped out of her head at the sight of the fellow security agent. She recognized him from her entrance exam.

"Agent 551? I haven't seen you since Moscow in '37! What are you doing here?"

Agent 551 smiled, showing a silver tooth in the center of his mouth.

"When Germany surrendered I asked for a transfer. The Commissar was kind enough to give me one, but it was a little too far out if you ask me."

The former comrade caught her by the hand and shook it. His grip was firm, and his hands calloused, feeling slightly of wood and metal. He must have spent his last years on the front lines, holding a gun always in search of enemies to destroy. Foreign and domestic. He led her over to the telegraph office. But before she could even think of who to write, 551 had another question for her.

"Last I heard from you, you were on some special mission overseas. Then I never hear from you. What had you so busy that you missed the rest of the war?"

Nadia hesitated for a few moments, wondering just how much was worth divulging to this agent. And why was he asking such a thing? Perhaps he was feeling her out, trying to see if she was hiding something. No, she would not risk ruining everything because of some busybody. She remembered her training, and where she was. Any probing questions were signs of suspicion.

"I was…acting as a liaison for the consulate in San Francisco. Wiring cables and such. It's why I'm here, actually. Need to send a telegram."

551 seemed satisfied and let her continue on to the telegraph office. There was a short line, and so 551 continued on with his inquiry.

"Say, comrade, did you hear about our Hero of the People, Renton Daniels? There is a rumor going around that someone tried to kill him recently."

At that revelation, Nadia whipped her head around, her blue eyes now colored with concern. How did 551 know about this? Were there other agents who kept a watch over all of them? The eyes of the NKVD could see farther than the borders of the Soviet Union, and had an ear in the most important places.

"How did you know? Who told you?"

"One comrade in the office heard through a contact back in San Francisco. You were there, so surely you must have known."

"I did, actually. It's why I'm here."

"Pravda? So what do you know about it? I heard it was some loony who went on a shooting spree."

Nadia averted her eyes, looking to see if there were any more prying ears listening in. She pulled her old comrade closer.

"You can't say this to anyone, but the shooter was one of our own. I have good reason to suspect someone in the NKVD wanted him dead."

551 suddenly turned whiter than snow, and was so visibly floored.

"Tiy seryozna? What traitor in our motherland would want the American Russian dead?!" (A/N: Are you serious?)

"That's just what I want to know. So I need to get to Moscow to find some answers."

"In that case, you should talk with Commissar Gudkov. He is supposed to be very close to Comrade Beria, so he might be able to help." Nadia nodded. (A/N: Lavrenti Beria (1899-1953) was chief of the Soviet secret police under Josef Stalin during World War II. During his tenure he would served as de facto commander of the NKVD field units, coordinated anti-Nazi partisan activities, and organized the communist takeover of Central and East European countries after the war.)

"Spasibo, I'll be sure to look him up. By the way, Agent 551, if you were to go to Moscow, what's the fastest way?" Agent 551 smiled and laughed quietly at the question.

"Otsyuda? Tol'ka yest' odna poyezdka v Moskvu." (A/N: From here? There is only one route to Moscow.)

"Kakaya?" (A/N: Which?)

"The Trans-Siberian Express. There is one leaving tonight. If you want to get to Moscow soon, you better catch it."

"In that case, I can't waste time. Thank you, comrade."

»»»»»

Nadia managed to get train tickets for all in her group, thanks to Agent 551's help. It still paid to have a connection in the NKVD. Of course, associating brought back bad memories. Memories of nights spent interrogating suspected enemies of the people, show trials, and unimaginable pain to prove her loyalty to the State and the Party.

While Nadia came to grips with returning to her old, deadly work, Renton was likewise facing the prospects of finally returning to Russia, and was gripped with anxiety over what he would find. He ultimately decided it was better to know what lay at the heart of the assassination plots against him, but he still wondered if the answers were worth knowing. The truth was often ugly. He had come to know the ugliness of the world far too well for his liking.

Renton sat in his compartment, in front of a table that had nothing but black bread and a clear bottle of water in front of him. He did not feel much like eating for some reason. Seeing that traditional Russian bread made him feel slightly ill, as it reminded him of the hardships he suffered in Stalingrad. Cold nights spent in hunger and worry for Eureka.

Eureka…

She had been the reason for everything, in the end. He fought, killed, and went insane countless times just to see her again, and be close to her. By what magic she had managed to survive this war he did not know. Would she survive this, too? If she ever died, he could never live with himself.

Ever since Holland, in the heat of the moment, brought up the deaths of his French comrades a month ago, Renton tried to bury those names. He wanted to put away those feelings of helplessness he felt last year, watching his friends die back to back. He did not want to remember his dark days of a brutal and bloody campaign, shunning them as nightmares.

What Holland and Nadia said was true, he was running away from his past. He realized that now…and yet...

"Why did I even come here? This could be a mistake."

But, alas, it was not worth thinking over such things. He had made his decision the moment he boarded the ship and he could not back away now. Renton could not return home, and he suspected he was not going to for a while.

Right at that moment, Renton heard the door open and saw a much needed person in his presence.

"Hi, Renton," Eureka said, softly.

"Hello, dear," Renton replied with a false smile.

Eureka almost waltzed into the room, as if floating on air. In her bright blue skirt and white blouse, she gave the appearance of a nymph from mythology. She joined him at the table and looked on at the basket of black bread.

"Feels like a lifetime ago since I ate rye," she thought aloud as she picked out a slice of bread.

"We may not have sourdough for a while now. Think you can stand it?" Eureka grinned wryly.

"I lived just fine before you introduced me to it. I'll survive."

The couple bit down on their slices after saying a quiet prayer. Slightly sweet, but bitter too. Much like their return to this place. The smile Renton braved to please his fiancée faded, giving way to pensiveness and doubt. It did not take long for Eureka to recognize something was troubling her soul mate and love of her life.

"Rentoshka, shto ne tak?" (A/N: Rentoshka, what's wrong?)

Renton looked out the window, seeing the rail yard where more T-34 tanks were unloaded. More weapons of war to finally put to an end the war that cost too many lives. How long until the final blow was struck? Would he even be around to see it?

"Ya ne trus', no ya boyus'." (A/N: I'm no coward, but I'm afraid.)

"Pochemu?" (A/N: Why?)

The oak brown-haired lad sighed, taking his eyes off the window to meet Eureka's snow grey orbs.

"Do you think we are doing the right thing? I mean…I can't shake this feeling that we may be in over our heads here."

Eureka took another slice of rye bread, as she continued listening to Renton.

"And…?"

"And, now that we're back in Russia, we might not return home…alive."

There was a daunting silence as soon as Renton finished speaking out his concerns. Judging from the look on Eureka's face alone, it seemed that she too was having misgivings about the trip. However, she lifted her head up, with a spark of resolve in her eyes.

"Rentoshka, we already discussed this long before boarding the train. We both promised to support Holland, didn't we? Both of us wanted to know what Dewey is trying to do, right? All this time, we've been running away. From Russia, most of all. If we don't confront our pasts, we won't move truly forward in life. Things can't always happen in your favor."

Renton nodded slowly, still unsure. But, he appreciated his fiancée's opinions nonetheless.

"I…guess…"

"Besides…" Eureka jokingly added, moving herself next to Renton, "...you shouldn't doubt and worry forever. You'll just get grey hair before your time." Renton smiled.

"I definitely don't want that."

"So hold your worries for after this is over," she whispered, climbing into his lap. "If you ever start to doubt, know I'm still here with you. I promised you I won't ever leave."

One of his hands found a soft spot behind her head, running his fingers through her dark hair while another grasped at her soft hand. Knowing she was with him at least gave some consolation. He wasn't alone on this journey, like when he started. Eureka was here, as was Holland, Talho, and the others. Any more people and he'd have an army to command.

"I'm fortunate to have a such a cute fiancée…" he muttered as he leaned in for a kiss.

However, at the word "cute," Eureka pulled away, a small pout plastered on her face.

"Cute? That's all? I'm just cute to you? What a disappointment."

"You don't like my compliment?"

"Absolutely not! I'm not a little girl anymore, you know! I'm a grown-up woman. I can be…sexy if I wanted to." Renton laughed whole heartedly at the thought.

"No way! Prove it."

After a second or so, he regretted his challenge. Eureka looked back at him, almost surprised by his response. The pout gave way to a mischievous smirk. She reminded him of a troublemaking cat up to no good.

"Prove it? Well, alright."

She leapt off his lap, and sauntered around his chair, eventually resting her head on his shoulder as she whispered sensuous words. Renton's ear burned just from listening.

"Do you have any idea about all the things we can do together when we're alone? I mean things that don't involve…talking."

"Like what? Kissing? We do that all the time." Eureka chuckled mischievously.

"Oh, no, darling. We can do _so_ much more than that. When I'm done with you, all you will ever think about when you come into this room, or any bedroom for that matter, will be me."

Renton swore he felt his face burning from the heat of Eureka's sultry teasing.

"U-u-umm…"

"Cat got your tongue?"

Eureka gave him the most loving smile a fiancée could give and gently pulled him out of his chair. Guiding him to the bottom bunk.

"Hmmm…I wonder if the top bunk is better."

"B-better for what?"

"For what I have planned for you, darling…"

They stopped short of the bunk before Eureka pulled him close to her. Her cheeks were flushed as well, but her grey eyes showed no hesitation. It was like she was a completely different person. Renton did not find himself averse to it, though. In fact, it seemed exciting.

She kissed him fully on the lips, pressing harder than she ever had before pushing him onto the bunk. Renton did not have a moment to think before Eureka leapt on him like a tiger. She unbuttoned his white shirt, and hungrily kissed up and down his chest. She said nothing, and he said nothing either. Instead he was lost in a haze of passion and ecstasy, unlike anything he ever felt with her before. He felt alive, more alive than their night alone in the cabin in France, more alive than after his proposal on the streets of Paris, more alive than when he at last admitted just how deeply he loved her.

Eureka was also lost in an ecstasy of her own, one of passion kept bottled inside for years. She dreamt of this moment during many a sleepless night. She daydreamed of what their first night as a married couple would be like. If it was like this, marriage could not come sooner.

Finally, she stopped, just as her grey eyes were aligned with his green ones. All that could be heard was synchronized panting. They finally felt alive, even with the harrowing future ahead of them.

Renton felt hot, hot enough to fully shed his shirt and overcoat. His face was bright red, redder than a beet. He looked up at his fiancée and thought he saw an angel looking down from heaven. She smiled and said,

"Are you alright?"

"Just…a little feverish."

"Then let me help you cool off…"

She gingerly picked up the hem of her skirt and start flapping it, using it like a fan to blow a gentle breeze over his body. As she fanned him, he was teased with glimpses under her skirt. He thought he saw a hint of pink with white. Still lost in a haze Renton's view drifted, until they became fixated on her well-shaped thighs. The breeze relaxed him enough to answer coherently when Eureka noticed his gaze. Her voice was sultry, dripping with want.

"See something you like under there?"

"Just you…although…I prefer you in blue."

Eureka blushed and smiled impishly.

"It would be boring if us ladies didn't change routine sometimes. Still want to call me cute?"

"Well…maybe you're a _little_ sexy, too."

"That's still progress…"

She scooted closer to him, only to lie down on top of him. Their eyes were perfectly aligned with each other, and Eureka leaned down for another kiss. However, Renton was a little disappointed to see the lovely view he had disappear.

"Aww, you couldn't have let me enjoy the view a little longer?"

"Down, Rentoshka," she said seductively, giggling in-between kisses. "There are still some things I wanted to do with you first."

Renton arched an eyebrow as he smirked.

"Oh, really? And what could those things be?"

"I'm glad you asked."

Eureka slowly lowered her head to Renton's level and kissed him. However, what Renton felt through the kiss was more surprising than usual. Unlike previous times, where their lips simply met, the young boy felt something slip into his mouth. Wet, slippery, and squirming like it was alive. Her…tongue?

"T-Eureka..."

The dark haired girl drew back from Renton, discreetly wiping a trail of saliva from her mouth.

"Didn't expect that, did you?" Eureka asked with a giggle.

"No…I didn't. But at the same time…"

He pulled her back, the distance between them just the width of an eyelash.

"…it felt so amazing."

His lips crashed into hers, and tried the same technique she used before. His mind was enveloped in a fog as his tongue explored her mouth. In the meantime, one of his hands slid down her back, creeping its way underneath her skirt. Now adjusting to the new form of kissing, Renton's tongue danced along with Eureka's. The waltz in their mouths continued for some time, until they broke apart in a huff, both desperate for oxygen.

"You know," he breathed, "this made me realize there are some things I've wanted to do, too."

Eureka placed a hand in Renton's bare chest, her hand making small invisible shape patterns.

"Oh?" Eureka said, jokingly pouting. "Have you been holding out on me, my dear?"

"Only because I wasn't sure if it was right or not. But now, since you're doing it..."

His hand felt her soft buttocks underneath her skirt, and lightly pinched one cheek with his thumb and forefinger. She yelped in surprise and blushed bright red in embarrassment. However, she did not recoil from him, and could only smile at Renton's unexpected move. He had always been reserved in intimacy, maybe somewhat standoffish. But to feel him be teasing, even cheeky, was refreshing.

"OOH! Oh my, Renton!" Eureka laughed. "That was naughty of you."

He smiled, showing a little pride that he could surprise her. But at the same time, he was blushing bright red, knowing he was doing and thinking things he had once only dreamed of.

"Sorry. I can't help it when you're so lovely."

"Well, I like this side of you…" she whispered seductively as she leaned in for a kiss.

"Oh, do you now?"

"Mhm…"

"In that case…"

He pinched her on her buttocks again, which made her jump only deeper into his embrace.

"OOH!"

"…I'll remember that in the future."

It was getting on in time, and the sun was slowly sinking in the window. They took that as the cue to change into their sleepwear, as a long journey awaited them. But they still felt undaunted, if only because they knew more nights like these were ahead of them as well. When at last they laid down next to each other, and both wrapped the other in their arms, Renton whispered a proposition.

"Tomorrow night, it's my turn."

"I will be looking forward to it, my love," Eureka said, kissing the nape of his neck.

And with a lonesome blow of the train's whistle, and a switching off of the lights, nothing more needed to be said.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Apologies for the late update. My computer suffered a freeze and crash that left me unable to do anything regarding the novel for more than a day. At least it's back now, and I can resume my work like before.**

 **We're finally in Russia, and travelling onward to Moscow. It's a long trip from Vladivostok to Moscow, so there is some time to get reacquainted with a long-lost character: Nadia, aka Agent 340 from _War of the Heart_. She will be a valuable ally for Renton on this adventure, and she has information of just how treacherous their journey can be, which she divulges here. Also, Renton is not the only one who has doubts about all of this. Eureka has some second thoughts, and needs someone to give her courage.**

 **Hope you all enjoy this little breather!**

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven**

 **June 14** **th** **, 1945**

 **Somewhere on the Trans-Siberian Railway, USSR**

Try as he might, Renton could not sleep. The bunks were very small for both him and Eureka to sleep in together, and the compartment was hard to maneuver around in. The slightest movement could cause one or the other to stir and wake. Eureka was sound asleep, somehow, facing the whitewashed metal walls of the compartment.

Renton sighed heavily and snuck out of the bed as quietly and slowly as possible. He did not want to wake her, and worry her. He exited the compartment, with the passenger car wheels clicking on the rails for his company.

 _Click clack, click clack._

He went to the dining car, hoping that a simple glass of water would be of help to him in his quest for sleep. He might be bothered less by the cramped quarters if something satiated him. After traveling through three vestibules he managed to find the bar of the dining car. It was enough for him, but he found something unexpected in there as well.

Sitting on a metal stool in front of a rickety wooden table was Nadia, their "government minder" and escort. The former agent was still in uniform, down to the hammer and sickle superimposed in a gold star on her belt. Not even her boots were off. Perhaps she had trouble sleeping as well. Upon seeing her old target, she nodded and ushered him to join her at the table.

His voice was gravelly, clearly tired.

"Can't sleep either?"

"Yes. Or rather, I haven't tried yet. Had some things on my mind."

"Things? What kind of things?"

She pulled out a chair to offered it to him. He slowly sat down, although he tried to equivocate by saying,

"I'm only here for some water."

"That's what they say when they have something to hide." Renton gulped in anxiety at the words.

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"I mean you should not be afraid of sharing something with me. I know the look of a man who is holding back. Don't forget, Thurston: I used to be a secret policeman."

A bartender came by and asked for their pleasures. Nadia asked for vodka while Renton wanted mineral water. As he left, Renton was now intrigued by the comments of Nadia. For what reason, he did not know. But she was right to say he was hiding something.

"I am still having some doubts about this. Especially with Eureka on this trip as well. I know we are facing against hers and Holland's older brother, but I still fear something. I was chased out of this country because I helped Eureka escape, and Holland for helping us. We are enemies of the state."

Nadia blinked, drumming her pearly fingers on the wooden table. Her lips pursed and her head nodded, pensively.

"I can't say you're wrong. As far as the Novikov children are concerned, yes, they are likely branded enemies…or if not that, subversives. I hate to say it, but travelling to Russia in 1938 was a mistake, Thurston. You're a foreigner who now knows too much about life in our country. They may kill us all."

Renton's hands curled into fists, trying and failing to wring out the regrets he had. Coming back to Stalingrad was a tremendous risk, and his association with the Novikov family put them all under a closer eye by the Party and Stalin. However, he did not regret loving Eureka and bringing her back with him. She was much happier now, as was he.

"But," Nadia continued, "know also that if anyone tries to lay a hand on any of you, Roza and I will be there to stop them. As far as I am concerned, whatever crimes you may have committed is water under the bridge. You did more to help our nation than to hurt it." Renton nodded and smiled in relief.

"Thank you for that. Although, I'm not completely helpless. Neither is Eureka or anyone else."

"Of course not. Surviving Chertov and the campaign in Normandy is proof of that. Still, it doesn't hurt to have extra hands."

The waiter brought their drinks. Nadia's vodka was in a small shot glass, and accompanied by a basket of black bread. Renton had a tall, thin glass for his mineral water, stored in a clear bottle. They raised their glasses and toasted. Nadia's was sardonic in tone.

"To the Communist Party, our Motherland, and Comrade Stalin!"

Renton said nothing but only drank long from his glass. Nadia downed the vodka in one gulp before taking a slice of rye bread. The aftertaste left a burning in her throat, one that could only dissipate with something to erase the taste. Bread, lemon, anything. After finishing off a slice, Nadia looked out the window, seeing the passing Siberian plains. She scoffed, running her fingers through her tangled blonde hair.

"Tovarisch Stalin…nash velikii vozhd'. Moy glaz…" (A/N: Comrade Stalin...our great leader. My eye...)

Hearing her scoff at the name of her country's leader was at once frightening and comforting. Frightening to know that she would be targeted and executed if anyone discovered her subversion. Comforting to know she had a dislike of tyranny, no matter its form or name.

"Nadia, how long were you in the secret police?"

"Long enough to regret it…" Renton remained silent, but did not look satisfied. "Since 1936. That's when I passed the entrance exam. It was a job I wanted to do my whole life."

"What kind of work did you do before the war?"

"Catching criminals, checking newspapers for subversion, outing conspirators and the like. You know, what every communist does…"

She took another slice of bread before asking for another shot. It seemed she was trying to drown something in her vodka, smother with her bread.

"You know, there were a few moments before I took on the assassination mission when I honestly thought I was in the wrong job."

"But you stuck it out until you met Chertov. Why?"

Nadia leaned over and breathed some revealing words.

"I was scared of what might happen."

"Scared? You? Why? Surely you could have left your job when you wanted to."

"Not if I wanted a black mark on my record. The Party would ask questions if I did. I'd say everyone was at least a little afraid."

"I don't understand. Why would the Party go after you just for changing jobs?"

She sighed and took another shot of vodka. She divulged a story that seemed more out of a penny dreadful than the life of a state security agent. But reality was often stranger than fiction.

»»»»»

 **November 16** **th** **, 1939**

 **Somewhere in southern Russia, USSR**

Agent 340 woke up with a bad pain in her neck. It was expected, given she was on the cold metal floor with about ten other agents. Ever since Beria had taken over the NKVD, there was a nationwide campaign to root out lingering supporters of the previous police chief, Nikolai Yezhov. Her name had been mentioned in a list, and she was whisked out of her apartment in Stalingrad.

She had been here for a little over five days, but was never given a reason why. All they told her was to come down and answer questions. The drive was a long one, before eventually reaching a prison in the middle of nowhere. There, she found others who now slept with her on the floor, now rising and waking.

The windows had bars on them, preventing access in or out. There was only one door, through which entered an elderly commissar. They all stumbled over each other to stand up and greet him. She almost was trampled by an older agent, climbing over her to stand up.

It was then she noticed the commissar was holding a record, and leaned on a table with a phonograph. Where did it come from? She knew it was not in the room yesterday. But then again, her mind was hazy from the days spent extracting confessions and proving her loyalty to the State. She had lost count of how many times she recited the Party member's oath. Each time was harder than the last.

"Comrades," he said, placing the record on the phonograph, "some of you think you are wrongfully imprisoned. That you shouldn't be here. Let me dispel any of those illusions that may linger: as long as you worked under Yezhov, you are suspect. And if you still think you are clear, let me teach you all a lesson. We're going to play 'musical chairs.'"

The light in the center of the room turned on and there was a circle of chairs (which certainly were not there yesterday). Nine of them. A sheet of sweat soaked her collar as she knew what this meant. The commissar made it clear.

"Whoever is left standing gets to stay in the NKVD."

"Comrade Commissar, what about the rest of us?" asked a younger agent.

"You will lose your party membership, and be discharged."

There was an uncomfortable silence, as everyone eyed the chairs with a sense of dread. 340 looked around and saw pallor in every face. For some it was the end. For others it was a reprieve. For all of them, it was a chance at redemption. Of what? She could not say. She did not even know what she had done.

With a turning of the crank and a scratch of the needle on the record the music began. The agents crowded around the circle of chairs. The song was a tango, melancholic in its tone as they paced around, like convicts on display before a warden.

 _The weary sun_

 _Bade a tender farewell to the sea._

 _At that hour you confessed_

 _That you had no love for me._

The traipsing continued on for what felt like forever. But it was only the first verse and opening that they marched through when the phonograph was switched off. At that moment the mood of the prisoners turned patience to pandemonium. Agent 340 fought hard with a young agent, possibly 20, for the ninth chair. The scuffle only lasted a few seconds as 340 shoved him to the ground before claiming the seat. The agent looked at her in horror and rage, knowing his fate was sealed. 340 refused to meet his gaze, fearing she would weaken and sacrifice herself. No, she would not give up this position she worked so long and hard for.

The younger agent backed into the corner, quietly crying to himself. His life was over; he just knew it. All he could do was wait for more to come join him.

"Don't get too relaxed, comrades. The test has just begun."

The phonograph was wound up while one chair was removed. The process repeated as the words of the tango started to find a place in the crevices of 340's brain.

 _I became a little sad  
Without longing, without sorrow.  
At that hour your words  
Rang out._

This went on for several hours, until there was only two agents left, and one chair. 340 had managed to survive somehow, but she did not know how much strength she had left to fight. The pain of fighting her own comrades was hard enough. Why couldn't this just end? What was it that the Commissar was trying to prove?

"I'm impressed you managed to make it this far. Now let's see who will get to stay."

The phonograph was wound up again, and that haunting music began. It was now a eulogy, an ode to how far all of them had fallen. She and the other agent circled around the one chair, waiting for the moment to rush it. She would kill him if it meant she could stay.

 _I haven't the strength to feel anger,_

 _You and I_

 _Are to blame._

In the end they were all guilty. Guilty for simply working under the wrong boss. In time, when Lavrenti Beria was kicked out of office, they would be here again. They would have to test their loyalties again. They would have to kick, punch, and beat each other senseless to prove where their love truly lay. And still, they continued their sad little tango around the chair.

 _The weary sun_

 _Bade a tender farewell to the sea._

 _At that hour you confessed_

 _That you had no love for me._

As the tango entered its instrumental phase, the phonograph was shut off. 340 immediately ran towards the chair, hoping to avoid a confrontation. However, she felt a sharp tug on her tunic that pulled her back. The agent, an older man in his late 20s, greeted her with a hard punch to the face. One eye was left blind as she careened over to the side and it seemed like it was all over. But she was determined to stay in the NKVD, no matter what. She shot out her right foot and then tripped the agent with her other leg, sending him falling flat on his face. 340 now jumped over him to reach the chair but the fight was not over. Once again he grabbed her, this time by her belt and tried to pull her down like a lever. She kicked him in the face in response, but it only pulled her down to the floor where they tussle like Japanese wrestlers.

"Let me go, you Trotskyite bitch!" he shouted. "You're the traitor!"

"Fuck off…" she breathed. "I gave up everything to be here…I won't be kicked out now…!"

She kneed him hard in the stomach before throwing him off her. At last she could stand up, and reached for the chair, but not before the other agent wrenched at her trousers, tearing them at the seams. She was undeterred and grabbed the back of the chair just as the other tore at her tunic, ripping off a breast pocket. Her uniform was a wreck, but it mattered little. With all of her might she spun on her heel and struck the agent across the head with the chair.

He fell back, bleeding profusely from his temple as she finally plopped herself into the chair. She panted in relief and exhaustion while she watched the agent fall on his back, crying in despair.

"No, goddammit, no! I don't want to go to Siberia!"

He turned to the commissar, his eyes shaking in fear. It was over for them. For all of them.

The commissar looked at 340, then at the defeated agent, and then the others huddled along the wall. The sounds of crying and desperate weeping were almost deafening. Agent 340 watched in anticipation of the fates awaiting them. She felt satisfied, proud even, for managing to fight and survive.

However, she never anticipated what the commissar said next.

»»»»»

"In the end," Nadia concluded, "nothing happened."

Renton nearly choked on his drink in surprise.

"What?!" He hissed, not wanting to wake people up. "After all that, no one was sent to the camps?" Nadia sighed.

"No. The commissar told us, 'out of the goodness of my heart, you can all stay. But you better come clean! I better hear some confessions out of you!'" She shuddered slightly at the memory and threw back her head in another glass of vodka. "I never felt more afraid in my life than in that moment. I sincerely thought my life was over, and I'd be branded an enemy of the people."

"What did you confess to?" Nadia shook her head, bitterness spewing from her voice.

"Total bullshit. We said anything we could just to get out. And when it didn't work we started turning on each other, demanding others to confess. I'm a Trotskyite. I sabotaged machinery to hinder the Five Year Plan. I passed information to Germany or to England. I'm a homosexual and engage in sodomy. Anything that is subversive, counterrevolutionary, or just degenerate, we said it, and demanded others say it."

"How long did you stay in the prison?"

"Too long. Until the end of February. By that point, they had gone through my record and found me clean. Though some of the others weren't so lucky. I'd say half of the people I was in prison with ended up in Siberia, or were shot as 'co-conspirators in seditious activity against the State.'"

An uncomfortable silence gripped both of them by their throats while Nadia ate another piece of black bread. Renton was lost in shock at the story of Nadia. How was it that the government she worked for could treat her and other coworkers so cruelly? Why did they resort to psychological games and manipulation? And it was all simply because they worked for the wrong boss. If the Soviet Union could inflict such torture on her, one of their own security agents, it could do the same to anyone.

"I didn't know it then," she reflected, "but I placed a timer on myself, to see how long I would last in the NKVD. After that, I went back to my usual business until war broke out. When I got the mission to assassinate you, it was clear I wasn't going to last much longer."

"If you didn't turn, we probably wouldn't be here."

"There is a part of me that regrets it still. Not for failing the mission, but for throwing away what was my whole life. At least it was the first time I ever made my own choice. On anything."

"That's just what freedom is. The right to control your own life." Nadia smiled lightly and nodded.

"Freedom…I'm still getting used to that. I can't say I ever felt it before now."

"Nothing is more freeing than being in charge of your own destiny. So let's try to keep it, shall we?"

"Damn right. That colonel is not going to ruin our lives."

They toasted to that promise and he finished off through rest of his water. She downed another shot of vodka and ate another slice of bread. At least now they had each other's back. At least now they were in charge of their own destinies. Or they would be for as long as there was a chance to fight for it.

»»»»»

Eureka Novikova never thought she'd be in Stalingrad again. Nor did she ever fathom the day of stepping into her old home again after four years. Everything was decimated and unrecognizable. What was once a welcoming home being now a broken, vacant void. Even the family kitchen was tarnished after a tough brush with the ravages of war.

Eureka silently walked into her home, or what was left of it, reminiscing of the happy and simple times of innocence. Back when they had nothing to fear and could roam the streets freely.

She noticed a framed photograph on the walls and reached out towards it. As she came closer, her heart sank in depression. It was an old family photograph, with glass cracks surrounding it like a spider web. It showed her parents, all of her brothers and herself, when she was only five. Eureka couldn't stop a tear from flowing down her cheek as she stared at the picture. Where did they go wrong? Why were they suffering, even to this day?

However, her quiet sorrow was interrupted by the sound of a familiar voice.

"Eureka…? Is that you?"

The girl's snow eyes snapped open as she heard her name being called. That voice…! She knew that voice more than anybody!

She quickly turned around and seen her youngest brother, Mikhail. Behind his thin reading glasses his eyes stared back at her grey ones, his lips curled in a gentle smile. He looked the same as he did the last time Eureka seen him. But at the same time, he was grown, a healthy 16-year-old. Eureka's eyes were blurry with tears as she stared at Mikhail. With wobbly legs, she approached him slowly, as if approaching a ghost.

"Mikhail! My little brother! You're…a-alive?! But, how? How did you escape?"

She wanted to give him a hug and never let go of him. After so many years of worrying and mourning over him, Eureka just wanted to embrace him. But before she could touch him, Mikhail stepped back. He was distancing himself. With each step, his smile faded and his expression grew darker, more fearful. Likewise, the air turned colder, heavier. By the time he spoke, it felt like it was the dead of winter.

"Sister, you shouldn't be here."

"Sh-shto?" Eureka blurted out in confusion.

"You must leave this place now," Mikhail warned her, his voice laced with fear and concern.

"Pochemu? Shto nye tak?"

"It's Dewey. He'll do whatever it takes to destroy you and Renton!"

"B-but…!"

The argument was abruptly cut short when a cold, menacing voice was heard. The voice that struck fear upon his own siblings. The voice that gave Eureka a cold shiver to the spine.

"There you are, little sister."

Eureka turned her head and seen her oldest brother Dewey by the living room. His ice blue eyes stared back her terrified grey orbs. He was holding a sword, with blood dripping from the hilt and beyond.

"Dewey, what…?!"

"It's been four years and you never wrote to me. We have so much catching up to do."

And with that, Dewey slowly walked towards his sister, his eyes beaming with malicious intent. The girl stood frozen unsure of what to do. Mikhail's hand gripped at her shoulder, forcing her to looked back at him.

However, what she seen was not had anticipated. Mihkail, the soft spoken, glasses-wearing boy, was no longer there. Instead, in his place was a rotted corpse with torn up clothes and dead eyes.

"Eureka…come with me…"

With a horrified shriek, Eureka recoiled and fell rear first onto the floorboards. The corpse of Mihkail slowly approached her, extending his hand to her. Eureka's whole body trembled and she couldn't find her voice. There was no other choice but to run, and that was precisely what she did.

The Russian girl fled from her brothers, refusing to look back. Her feet moved as fast as she could as she tried to escape the hellhole that nearly became her downfall. She had to reach Renton and leave this place, for good! As she burst out of the front door of the flat, she found Stalingrad blanketed in snow. She felt a chill slice through her body as she jumped onto the street and ran. As she passed a broken window, she noticed her clothes had changed, as well.

Rather than the modern, Western dark blue jacket and skirt better suited for summer, she was wrapped in her old light blue dress. Her tattered white shawl was draped over her shoulders, and on her feet were black snow boots. It was as if she had transferred in body back four years. Back to the time of the battle.

In fact, it seemed the battle was still raging. At the sound of gunfire, her muscles tensed. Eureka looked around a street corner and saw something far more terrible than anything she had ever witnessed in the Normandy campaign. Four German soldiers, mercilessly gunning down and then repeatedly bayoneting a middle-aged woman. Her mother.

"Mother…oh, God, no…" Eureka managed with a sob.

Dewey approached the Germans from behind, walking passed them, his eyes fixated on Eureka alone.

Unable to run any longer, Eureka collapsed on the ground, her tears flowing through her face. She had nowhere to hide. Her fate was sealed.

"Pomogi…" (A/N: Help...)

Dewey raised his sword, pointing it at his young sibling.

"Pomogi mnye." (A/N: Help me...)

The blade raised upward, ready for execution.

"KTO-TO, POMOGI MNYE!" (A/N: Someone, help me!)

And before the sword met Eureka's head, her eyes snapped open. She catapulted from out of her bed as her frightened eyes scanned her surroundings. She was still laying down in her room, with nothing occupying her but the clicking of the passenger car wheels on train tracks. Everything she saw and heard was just a dream…or rather…a dreadful nightmare.

She breathed heavily, in sync with the clicking of the passenger car wheels.

 _Click clack, click clack._

Her forehead had a sheet of sweat, casting a soft light in the dark compartment. She felt suffocated, and needed to get out. The bed was far too cramped, anyway. As she stood up it seemed Renton had left too, having the same idea. Travelling by train in Russia was never the most comfortable affair.

So she exited the compartment, and looked down the corridors. Empty. Like what she felt in her heart right now. The soft voice of doubt came creeping back, sending a shiver up her back. She should never have come back. Her whole family had been shattered, and she was branded an enemy of the state.

However, her reservations were interrupted when she lost focus and literally bumped into another person. It was another woman, two years older than her. She had black hair that was growing down the neck and hazel colored eyes. She was in uniform, courtesy of the Bellforest Militia.

"Oh, hello Eureka. I take it you couldn't sleep either?"

"Talho!" she said, feigning happiness at seeing her friend. "I'm afraid not. Those bunks are far too small to move around in."

"Ugh. Don't remind me of those cursed things. I think I nearly broke my back just from sitting on them."

Talho's sharp eyes caught small signs of distress in her younger friend's face.

"Want to chat near the windows? I think there's a spot somewhere inside this train."

Eureka acquiesced and the two women started towards the back of the train. They happened upon the lounge car, decked with small armchairs facing outward towards the windows. It did not even approach the luxury of the trains they rode in America coming back from Normandy, but at least it was a change from the cramped quarters of the sleepers.

"I suppose this will have to do," Talho said to no one in particular. "We should kill some time while we are over here

Talho searched through her pockets and found a deck of cards. She produced them and smiled at Eureka.

"Eureka, have you ever played card games before?"

"Oh, I used to adore card games. My brothers and I played them as children. Do you happen to know the card game Durak?" (A/N: Durak: Fool in Russian. A popular card game in Russia and the post-Soviet states, usually played between two to five people where the object of the game is to get rid of all cards. Whoever is left holding cards is the "durak.")

"I don't think so. Sounds like my kind of game."

Talho picked her seat next to a small window and began to shuffle the cards with both hands. She gave the stack to Eureka, allowing her to set up the game.

Eureka, remembering the game vividly, knew all the ins and outs of how to play, and explained as she dealt herself and Talho six cards. There was a slight tremble in her hand as she removed all the twos, threes, fours and fives from the deck in preparation.

When she placed the deck down and revealed the trump suit, the table almost shook. Eureka bit her lip, wanting to hide her anxiety as she attacked first, placing a card of the matching trump suit down into the center of the table.

Talho didn't need to think twice that something was troubling the girl. The least she could do was find out what was on her mind. So, like a big sister to the other, she asked her friend,

"Eureka, is there something on your mind? You can tell me, you know."

She sighed, and stared up at the ceiling of the car. A lamp bathed the lounge in a low glow. It reminded her of a dimly lit cell. A prison, much like how it was before finally leaving. She always felt trapped, barred from going to see Renton once he left. She never had an opportunity to travel outside her country before he came back. Before she begged him to take her with him.

"We're taking a huge risk being here, Talho. You do know that, right?" The other girl nodded thoughtfully.

"I know...Holland told me about it. You escaped Stalingrad and were branded as traitors for it."

"Sovershenna vyerna. My whole family may even be dead or in prison because of what we did. No, not just that. Because of our association with Renton. Just me knowing him and loving him puts us all at risk. They'd slaughter us on sight if they wanted to." (A/N: Absolutely right.)

"It must have taken a lot of courage to leave there. And I understand that you are afraid about what might happen now that we're on Russian soil. But..." Talho reached out to Eureka's hand, in a comforting gesture. "…Just know, that your brother, Renton, and I, won't let anything happen to you. Nobody should shun you or harm you just because you fell in love with an American. We can't help who we love, no matter the circumstances." Eureka smiled and blushed as she dealt another card.

"Of course. I don't regret loving Renton. It's cost me dearly, but I'm happier with him than I ever was before. But that just makes what Dewey did all the more painful. I mean...we're all family, aren't we? Even if Renton is an American, we all still accepted him! Why couldn't Dewey...?"

Eureka shifted her feet, encased in white slippers, like she was wading through sand on a beach.

"If you don't mind me asking..." Talho asked carefully, "what was your family like beforehand? I'm an only child, so, what was it like back in those days?"

The young girl suppressed an amused laugh, thinking of all the happy times she spent with her brothers before the storm of war shattered everything. Life was so different for her then. It was almost like a dream. Sadly, dreams never last.

"Well, you know Holland can be a big jokester. He loved picking on Renton when he first came to us. Mikhail usually went along with it, and tried to bring us closer. Volodya just tried to keep everyone in line when Father wasn't around. He introduced Renton to our neighbors, and they sometimes played soldier together."

She sighed contently, the film reels of her memories playing in her consciousness. Everything felt so vivid. So lively. But always, everywhere, Dewey was absent, or off to the side, watching in a mixture of apathy and resentment. Eyeing Renton like some annoying mosquito, that had to be quashed.

Talho listened on as she took another card from the stack. At this point in time, she was starting to lose in such a simple game. She didn't count on how tricky this 'Durak' game was going to be.

"Sounds like a great family..."

At the same time, Talho felt a little envious that Eureka had many siblings while she was the only child to rich parents.

"I'm sure they would be proud of you, for coming this far and growing into a fine woman."

Eureka blushed at the compliment. Indeed, she was a completely different person from when this whole adventure began in Stalingrad, and everyone could see it.

"Do you...really think so?" Talho nodded.

"I know so. Besides, winners gain wisdom, even in the slightest victory."

As she said that, she picked out yet another card out of the deck, playfully winking at her friend. She grinned, and played her next hand, another trump card which left her with only two cards left. She was close to winning, and she knew it.

She put down a final card, her hands free. She had won the game.

"Darn it!" Talho said, with a chuckle. "First attempt foiled. You weren't lying when you said you knew the game, Eureka."


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: T** **his chapter is set in Moscow, and it was one of my favorites to write. While I wanted to write plenty more about shenanigans in Russia (due in no small part to my living in the country for three months), I had to limit the Moscow chapters to just two. The gang won't venture far beyond Red Square and the Kremlin itself, but I think that's what most people expect to read about when they hear Moscow, Russia. When this is done, I may post a couple of scrapped chapter ideas of touring in Moscow. But hey, there's plenty here that will get readers excited anyway.**

 **So please, read and enjoy, comrades!**

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve**

 **June 24** **th** **, 1945**

 **Approaching Moscow, USSR**

Two weeks on a train, especially one with cramped sleeper cars, was long enough to drive anyone mad. Renton and Eureka could only sleep after what felt like hours of closeness and soft touch. Nadia could only sleep after several shots to drown out every bad memory of the NKVD. The militiamen could barely sleep at all; as most did not even understand why they were travelling.

Holland likewise could only sleep for a few hours at a time, whenever he managed to put Dewey out of his mind. Sitting in a coach car with a book in hand, he listlessly read over words in a story he could barely remember. It was still dark out, dawn not even approaching. Night seemed to be eternal, much like how this long adventure which began in Stalingrad seemed unrelenting. How many German soldiers had he killed? How many laws had he broken just to make it to America, and now back to the Soviet Union?

How long would it be before he and his family were targeted again?

The clicking of passenger car wheels on the rails haunted him, more evidence that he had set foot on his track, and could not detour. He had some doubts about coming back to Russia, putting himself, his sister, his best friend, and his sweetheart at risk, but he had to swallow them. He had to find the truth, no matter how ugly it might be.

"What are you reading there, Lieutenant?"

He looked up and found Nadia, one of their two "government minders" to escort them to Moscow. Holland at first was weary about having a former assassin and secret policeman accompany them, but even he knew that he would be wandering blind without her. Her experience, her insider knowledge, and her connections were a boon to him and his small group of investigators.

She looked at the title of his book.

" _Demons_ by Feodor Dostoyevsky. I thought that book was banned."

"In Russia, maybe. We still can read in America."

"We still have _Crime and Punishment_ here, and _Notes from Underground_."

"Speaking from experience?"

Nadia remained silent, only pursing her lips. Holland noted his misstep and tried to amend the situation.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

"No, you're right. I burned books, like the rest of the NKVD. That is, if an author wasn't abducted and shot."

Yet another bout of silence gripped the two of them, two polar opposites working together. A former member and enforcer for the establishment joined hand-in-hand with a dissident. Irony had a way of being cruel.

"You have no reason to trust me," Nadia said, sounding contrite, "but there is a limit to what one man can do alone. My words may mean little, but I will give everything to finding your brother and stopping whatever his plan is."

"You saved my best friend from death and put your own life at risk to do it. I don't have any reason to doubt you. However, I just want to know one thing: when we get to Moscow, will we be thrown into jail?"

Nadia sighed and thought for a while. There would be that risk, given what all of them had done and with whom they associated. Being friends with an American already put the entire family on a watch list, most likely, and escaping the country likely would land them in a labor camp, or worse.

"Thurston asked me the same question one night. Associating and fraternizing with an American was a mistake, Lieutenant Novikov. It is likely that your whole family was marked the instant you shook hands with him. All of us may be marked for elimination; they could kill us all. But I also told Thurston that if they come for any of you, I and Roza will be the first to defend you." Holland nodded, pursing his lips.

"Well, it's better than fighting alone. And it's better than stumbling around in the dark with no way to get information. I'm counting on you to find a lead to Dewey."

"The NKVD knows everything in this country, Lieutenant. Finding your brother should not be too difficult."

At that moment the conductor pushed by Nadia and issued an announcement to all in the coach car, moving down the train.

"The next stop is Moscow! The next stop is Moscow! This train goes no further!"

That was the cue for both of them to return to their cabins and prepare to disembark. Back in the sleepers, Roza knocked on Renton and Eureka's compartment. Eureka was practically dead to the world, her nighttime experiences akin to floating on a cloud. But Renton was lucid enough to rise (after some struggle of disentangling himself from Eureka's embrace) and approach the door. The knocking just would not cease, and he wondered what would possibly demand waking up in the middle of the night.

A sliver of dawn cracked over the plains as he turned the knob and groggily said,

"All right, all right…"

He slipped open the door with a gentle squeak, and was greeted by Roza, Nadia's Kazakh colleague and fellow "government minder."

"Roza, what is it? It's almost four in the morning…"

"We're approaching Moscow, Thurston," she said, sounding slightly concerned. "You should get ready."

"What? Now?"

"Yes, now! We'll be in the city within the hour. Hurry up and get dressed."

The door quickly closed, and Renton was left in a cold sweat. Moscow. The very center of the Soviet Union, the beating heart of the Workers' Paradise. The place where his search for answers would begin…and where his, and indeed all of their lives, could easily end. Nadia did not mince words: he was likely a target, along with everyone else. He could easily be shot on the station platform and no one would bat an eye. He could become a nonperson, someone who might as well never existed.

Renton tugged at his collar as he wondered whether it was worth waking Eureka to the news. He looked upon her, peacefully sleeping on the bunk, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

Even as she slept, Renton thought, she still looked gorgeous.

He came by the bunk, and gently nudged his fiancée. A soft moan escaped Eureka's lips and she shifted under the blankets.

"Eurekasha?"

"…"

"Eureka, it's time to get up. We'll be in Moscow soon."

Still no response from her. Perhaps he was going about this the wrong way. As she turned over away from him, he remembered the many nights spent together beneath the warmth of their sheets. Renton smiled lightly and reached out one hand to her, thinking back to their first night of pleasure. His finger traced its way down her back, resting on her bottom. He pinched her playfully there with his thumb and forefinger, and that proved to be the key.

Eureka almost leapt off the bunk in surprise as she was fully awake.

"OOH!"

Her grey eyes looked over her shoulders to see Renton lightly smiling the way a cat who drank all the cream would. Giggling, she beckoned him to rejoin her in the bunk.

"Rentoshka, was that a new method to stir me awake? You naughty little devil!"

"I normally wouldn't do that, but we'll be in Moscow soon."

Eureka's light blush and alluring smile faded away slowly. She had completely forgotten where she was. Moscow, the first step to finding the truth of the madness they have endured for two years.

"I see. Very well. Let me get myself together, Rentoshka."

And so, the young lovers nodded and cleaned themselves up. They long knew this day would come. If only their train ride was a bit slower…

With everyone fully dressed, groomed, and ready, the train slowed as it approached the station, its platform within view outside the passenger car windows. All heard the whistle blow, heralding their arrival in the capital. Some of the militiamen crossed themselves and silently prayed. Nadia kept one hand on her pistol, loaded and ready at her side. Holland curled his hands into fists of anxiety as the train slowly came to a halt. Eureka lightly gripped Renton's, her lips quivering in fear of what awaited them all outside the passenger car.

By the time they reached that platform, everything will fall into place. They would either be nonexistent to the crowd or be arrested like common criminals in an instant.

The conductor again called out to all passengers.

"Moscow! Moscow! All out! This train goes no further!"

After his response, the doors opened. The moment of truth was upon them now. What would their fates be? Arrest or death? Open arms or immediate execution? There was only one way to find out. With other passengers impatiently pushing them along, Renton and company were forced to step out of their train. The only sanctuary they had left.

His foot came down on the concrete of the platform, along with everyone else. He had his eyes closed tight, bracing for the worst. He thought for sure he would be shot then and there, but surprisingly, he heard nothing. He felt nothing. Instead, he heard the orders of an officer.

"Detail…present…ARMS!"

The clacking of rifles, being raised in salute.

"Music!"

A small band struck up, playing the chords of the Internationale. Renton opened his eyes, and found to his surprise a small welcoming party waiting for him on the platform. An honor guard of Red Army soldiers had their rifles raised in salute of their dearly missed hero. A small band playing brass and woodwinds. A crowd carrying banners in Russian, welcoming their long-lost hero. And there, at the front of the crowd, stood two familiar figures, both soldiers.

One was an older gentleman, possibly in his 50s, with a grey mustache and goatee. The insignia on his shoulder boards indicated he was a lieutenant general. Behind a pair of glasses stood two kindly sky blue eyes looking at Renton's jade ones, like a father would to his long-lost son. Next to him was a younger man, easily only 21, who appeared to be a major. His earthen brown hair peeked under his peaked cap, while two bright cobalt eyes and a bright smile greeted Renton like a forgotten brother.

Renton's jade eyes widened to the sizes of dinner plates at the sight of the two men before him. He didn't need to think long and hard to know who they were.

"My god…Vladimir? Piotr Nikolayevich?"

"Welcome back, Rentoshka," Vladimir said with the warmest smile he had ever seen. "We've been waiting for you."

Eureka charged right towards her older brother, giving him a tight hug. It had been nearly five years since they last seen each other. Neither of them had any idea if the other was alive. Eureka cried tears of joy as she embraced Vladimir.

"Volodya! You're...alive! Dear god, you are alive!"

"But…how?" Renton asked, bewilderment, relief, and happiness combining. "How did you even know we were coming here?"

"I telegraphed NKVD headquarters that you were with me," Nadia interjected. "It seems they also informed the Novikov family."

Holland slowly approached the older man next to Vladimir, glasses magnifying his eyes. He already knew who this elderly soldier was.

"Father...?"

The old weary general reached out his hand and gently squeezed his young son's shoulder. As the band's music swelled, Holland held back a tear in his eye. It had been almost five years since he had seen his father's face.

"It's good to see you're still alive, son. And you're taller, too."

At those words, Holland couldn't hold back, and grabbed his father tightly.

Talho smiled at the beautiful reunion between father and son. She knew that it had been a long time since they had seen each other. Renton was just as happy to see his future family-in-law, but felt a sense of guilt too. If they had come to greet him, weren't they at risk in some way?

However, Renton remembered Nadia's assurances to him last night. The American had to take her word for it. He could not afford to worry about it forever. There was work to be done, and answers to be found.

With the music band executing the final note in their song, the crowds faded away. Everyone left the platform and the train station as the conductor called out for the next passengers to board the train.

As they walked towards the station, Vladimir made an announcement.

"You've all arrived on time, actually. There is going to be a victory parade today and a gala tonight at the Kremlin."

"What are they for?" Renton asked. "Russia's victory over Germany?"

"What else?" Piotr Nikolayevich said. "But let's worry about that later; you all must be exhausted after such a long trip!"

"Arriving at five in the morning should be a crime!" Vladimir agreed. "Come with us; we have some transportation waiting."

Through the gilded halls of Yaroslavlsky Station to the steps of Komsomolskaya Square, Renton felt adrift. He could barely keep his eyes open as he followed his entourage and long-lost family to a line of black sedans. All he could manage to do was toss in his suitcase together with Eureka's into the trunk before filing into the back of the car.

Leaning against the window, he said nothing but only felt his weight shift as the car peeled out of the square. Dawn began to break over the buildings and the last vestiges of night slipped away.

His eyes lazily looked out at the streets, tracking the Neoclassical-style apartments, stores and shops which lacked flair. The imposing, realistic monuments to the heroes of the Revolution and the socialist movement. The posters and propaganda inspiring viewers to follow the communist ideal.

While driving along Tverskaya Street, one poster near a watchmaker caught Renton's eye. A young boy holding a Soviet flag in one hand and a Mosin-Nagant rifle in the other looked earnestly to him. Behind him stood the flags of the other Allied powers, the victorious nations over fascism. Below the young man read the words, in bold, capital letters:

 ** _FORWARD COMRADES, TO VICTORY!_**

Renton recognized the young man as himself, when he was but a soldier in Stalingrad. Back then, the war seemed like a world away, a distant game before he came face-to-face with its horrors. The ideological struggle was alien, incomprehensible. After only five days fighting in the streets, he was elevated to the level of a mythic hero, a symbol of the support from the West, and then a model for all Soviet citizens to follow. He became the American Russian.

But the next propaganda poster, many times larger than the one featuring himself, made Renton's blood run cold and his skin crawl. It featured a portrait of a man with combed black hair and a thick mustache. His stare was hard, steely, with a small smile peeking under his mustache. Renton thought the man was staring right through him as he recognized the man. The Great Leader of the Workers' Paradise. The giant who faced down and beat Hitler into submission. The man of steel.

Josef Vissarionovich Stalin.

For a long time, the names of leaders like him were only that to Renton: just names. The only thing that mattered to him in his long, bloody battles were the friends in the thick of it. The people for whom he cared deeply. Eureka. Vladimir. Holland. Talho. Petya. Natasha. Anatole. Ken-Goh. Jacques. Charles. Ray.

But for the first time, seeing that giant man's face, his hard stare, his imposing stance, he felt an icy chill run through his body. He was not awed by seeing the face of the leader; instead he only felt fear. Fear of what fate awaited him, Eureka, and the others.

He managed to close his eyes, just as the car came to a stop in front of the Hotel National, across the way from Red Square, and the impressive Kremlin.

»»»»»

Staying awake was difficult, and Holland could only manage to get a short nap in his room before being called upon to dress himself for the gala. He did not bring any formal civilian clothes with him, so instead he could only wear his militia uniform. It bore a vague resemblance to Red Army uniforms; the same dark green color, upright collar, and belted around the waist with a leather Sam Browne belt. All that distinguished him from another officer was the cockades on his peaked cap: bearing the bald eagle holding lightning bolts and an olive branch in its talons.

Looking in the mirror, Holland could not help but feel lost in his own home. He was Russian-born and Russian-bred, but his home had chased him out, and brought him to America. Being back home, especially in the very heart of the Soviet Union, put him on edge.

In his childhood, the NKVD were a highly venerated force. The sword of the Party, striking down enemies foreign and domestic. Protecting the people against agitators and counterrevolutionaries. It was not until Stalingrad that he recognized them for who they really were: brutal enforcers with no loyalty to anyone except their "Great Leader."

As much as he detested and mistrusted them, they were also his only means of finding out about Dewey. He had to trust in his "minders" to navigate through the NKVD and get the information they needed.

Well, he thought, at least they would not be in the city long. If they moved out of the city and off the grid, they were safe. Unless the government asked them for something…or someone.

"I'm ready, Holland!" a familiar feminine voice called from the bathroom. "How do I look?"

Holland turned on his heel and was greeted by his lover and subordinate, Talho Yukieva. The militia sergeant was out of her drab fatigues and dressed like a lady of high society. A one-piece knee-length dress of dark violet showed off her chest with a plunging neckline. A white cloth belt highlighted her curves, and a pair of gold earrings underscored the slight flash in her brown eyes. On her hands were pristine white gloves and her feet protected by high-heeled black shoes.

To the battle-hardened partisan-turned-officer, she was the picture of beauty. A figure better placed in the lavish Tsarist court than in the austere Soviet capital.

"Bozhe moy," he said, almost breathless, "tiy krasivaya." (A/N: My God, you're beautiful.)

"Vyerna?"

"Konyeshna. I almost forgot it was you." Talho blushed at his compliment, her cheeks now bright red.

"You don't look too bad yourself…even if it's the same uniform you wear almost every day." Holland couldn't help but laugh at the back-handed compliment.

"Gee, thanks. How are the other soldiers?"

"Tired, last I checked. When I told them they didn't have to come to this gala, I swear they all cheered. Looks like it's just you, me, Renton and Eureka."

"Anymore and it would be too crowded."

After their playful banter, they headed out of their room and into the hall, adorned with various examples of Russian fine art. The floors had lavish red carpets, and seemed more akin to an imperial palace than a simple hotel. They were not about to complain about the accommodations, however.

In the lobby the couple ran into Renton, busy conversing with Nadia. He had a new wardrobe too, a brown suit and slacks over a white shirt and red tie. His old trench coat hid away medals pinned on the right side of his chest. The mane of oak brown hair was neatly combed, and looked to be kept in place with mousse. Dark bags hung around his eyes, and he practically seemed asleep. Arriving so early on a train should be made illegal.

"I made contact with Commissar Gudkov," Nadia said quietly. "He said he might have some information to lead us in the right direction."

"Kharasho. Learn everything you can without appearing nosy."

"We're secret policemen, Thurston; being nosy is our specialty. You should just focus on enjoying the parade and the gala." Renton averted his eyes, hinting at some deeper woe and reluctance. "As best as you can, at least."

Holland reached for his old friend's shoulder, and gave him a strong smile.

"So, shall we see the army that won the war?"

"Sure. At least it's a nice time killer."

"Holland, Rentoshka! Wait for me!"

Out of the lobby came a young girl with long dark brown hair. She had dressed very formally, perhaps more so than Talho. Clad in a dark blue gown with a red belt, she cut an attractive figure, yet another character better placed in an imperial court. A white choker necklace and a decorative hair flower framed her head, while black pantyhose and matching high heeled-shoes wrapped her legs.

Over her body was a matching blue coat made of wool, in preparation for the elements. Her grey eyes lit up at the sight of Renton and Holland.

"Vsye gotovy?" she asked everyone. (A/N: Everyone ready?)

"Da, Eurekasha," Renton replied. "We're ready. At least, I'm ready as I can be."

He inadvertently yawned, unable to contain his exhaustion. He desperately wanted to sleep. Eureka eyed him with a knowing smile and gently squeezed his hands.

"It's just for today, Renton. When the gala is over you can sleep for as long as you want."

"I'll hold you to that. Togda, poshli!" (A/N: Then, let's go!)

Nadia stayed behind while Roza led the group across the street to Okhotnii Ryad, towards the Kremlin walls. It was a dark, leaden day with a light rain in the air. Roza unfurled an umbrella for some to gather around, but Holland and Renton chose not to. The girls talked with each other briefly as their heels splashed on the wet asphalt.

"Have you ever been to Moscow, Eureka?"

"Only once. I was just a baby at the time, so I barely remember it. Father came to speak with someone in the Commissariat of Military and Naval Affairs."

"I see. So this is all new for you, is it?" Eureka nodded.

"Da. Of course, Father would sometimes talk about visiting the city as a family. We were planning to do it when I turned 14, but, of course, that's when the war happened."

The towers lining the Kremlin walls, dating back to the times of Ivan III, seemed to follow the small group, eyeing them as they crossed the plaza. Past the Hotel Moscow, the Alexander Garden, and through the gates of the Kremlin, they came upon Red Square.

On their left was the State Department Store, covered with red flags and portraits of past and current Soviet leaders. Huge columns of Soviet soldiers completely blocked off the entrance to the department store, standing in tight formation like Roman legions. Some soldiers carried standards, which bore the names of the armies that fought from one end of Europe to the other. From the outskirts of Leningrad to the snowy mountains of the Caucasus. From the gates of Moscow to the steps of the Reichstag in Berlin.

On the right, in front of the Kremlin stood Lenin's Mausoleum, flanked by bleacher seats where thousands of people sat, waiting expectantly for the parade, the show of strength of the nation that struck down the fascist Third Reich. There were many honored guests among the attendants: deputies of the Supreme Council of the Soviet Union, generals, Heroes of the Soviet Union, authors and artists, and workers from the Moscow factories.

As they all filed into the bleachers and found spots to sit, the entire audience turned its gaze towards the top of the Mausoleum. Renton looked up, and saw several men in dark coats walk in single file up the steps. The sight of one mustachioed man in a grey military overcoat was a light switch for all in the bleachers. In an instant, without any announcement or introduction, they erupted in cheers and wild applause.

The mustachioed man looked over his shoulder, and Renton's gaze met his for a fleeting second. A light smile sent several cold knives through his body and made his throat tighten in fear. Without any thought he brought his hands together. He could barely hear anyone or anything except the thunderous roar that swept through Red Square. The soldiers likewise spoke in one loud voice, cheering their leaders as they mounted the grandstand.

A clock in the distance struck the hour: 10 in the morning. Out of the walls of the Kremlin came two men in military uniforms, each riding on a white horse. From Okhotnii Ryad came another officer on a black stallion, riding to meet the two in front of Lenin's tomb. They saluted each other like generals of old with a swish and flick of their sabers. Renton felt a tug at his coat sleeve, and heard a gentle feminine voice. Roza pulled him in closer to hear.

"The men on the horses are Marshals Zhukov and Rokkosovsky. They are both leading the parade."

The two officers rode around and reviewed the troops. It was a scene taken from Ancient Rome, when giants like Scipio, Marius and Caesar inspected their legions before marching into battle against barbarians. Atop the grandstand, admiring the soldiers who secured his domain, stood their great emperor. Their dictator.

Renton looked again at Stalin, who smiled in satisfaction at the legions of men standing before him. These men bled and sacrificed not just for their country, but for him. He could order them to invade a country with the snap of his fingers and the flick of his pen.

Renton curled his hands into tight fists, and bit his lip. To think his country made a deal with a dictator to defeat another one…

After reviewing the troops, Zhukov approached the grandstand, and joined Stalin in front of Lenin's tomb. He approached a microphone, and addressed not just the soldiers about to march in triumph, but all who were bearing witness to this historic event.

"Comrades, soldiers, officers, workers, honored guests, and citizens of the Soviet Union! The Great Patriotic War is over! Our victory over fascist Germany is unprecedented in the history of mankind. Germany's arrogant attempt to conquer only resulted in their inevitable destruction and the annihilation of their armies. We owe our success in this war to the fatigues and privations of our soldiers, their unique bravery, and their undying love for the Motherland. We won because we were guided by our Great Leader and military genius, Marshal of the Soviet Union Josef Vissarionovich Stalin!"

At the name of their leader, the soldiers erupted in a long cheer. Renton thought he might go deaf, but as the cheer passed, Zhukov continued on.

"Through his fortitude, we survived the most terrible destruction of our country, and grew stronger. Through his cunning, we outmaneuvered our foes and defeated them time and again on the battlefield. Through his inspiration, we fought harder than our enemies could ever anticipate. For it is our love of the Motherland, our love for our Great Leader, and our devotion to the Party that has preserved, continues to preserve, and will preserve our great nation. Comrades, this is _our_ victory! This is the victory that you shall speak of to your children, your grandchildren, and future generations of Soviet citizens. This is the victory that we will always remember. This is the victory that secured a bright future for our country and our people.

Comrades, glory to the Red Army. Glory to Comrade Stalin. Glory to our Motherland. May the thunders of our victory in this, our Great Patriotic War, forever sound throughout the ages for all the world to hear. Long live the Soviet Union!"

As Zhukov concluded his speech and stepped away from the microphone, every soldier, tankman, airman, and sailor in those great columns roared in one loud cheer. It was longer than the last, and others in the crowd joined in as well. Even Renton, despite his fears and his apprehensions, could not help but join in. It was a victory for all to remember, that he could not deny. But what kind of future will this victory bring for them all?

For two and a half hours, soldiers marched past the stands in lockstep. The synchronized echo of boots, marching over the chords of the Soviet anthem, was something out of ancient times. The victorious legions returned from the frontiers, battling against the barbarian hordes, proceeding through triumphal arches. The generals marched at the head, saluting their beloved leader when they passed the Mausoleum. After the infantry's procession, a long parade of military hardware graced the eyes of every observer.

Tanks. Armored cars. Self-propelled guns. Artillery pieces. Anti-aircraft guns. Rocket artillery trucks. The tools that won the greatest war in the history of the world showcased the might of the Soviet Union for all to see. For the average citizen, the sight was magnificent. For Renton, it was terrifying.

He whispered to Eureka, soft enough not to be heard by anyone else,

"But does he want peace?"

She said nothing, if only out of fear of what might happen. But she could not deny the intimidation felt by this massive display of military power. Of course, victory parades were not unheard of, and it would be strange if they did not happen after a major victory in war. However, something felt different about this march. It was more than just a celebration. It was a warning. To who? She could not say.

»»»»»

 **That evening**

 **Inside the Kremlin**

The Kremlin was normally not open to private citizens or visitors. It was only open to members of the government, and foreign dignitaries and leaders. To actually walk inside the grounds, view the gardens and the centers of power, was unreal for Renton and his group. Even Eureka and Holland, while only visiting Moscow in their youths, were never allowed in to see the home of their dear leader, or the meeting place of the Congress of Soviets.

Within the Grand Kremlin Palace, a vast banquet was held for government officials, high-ranking generals, and honored foreign guests to celebrate the victory of Nazi Germany. There, in the gilded halls and by the ornate walls, the small band of foreign travelers mingled with men they could never have dreamed of meeting.

Renton, still decked in his suit and tie, leaned against a wall, decorated with gold hammers and sickles for wallpaper. In his hand he held a cup of mineral water, as it was the only non-alcoholic drink offered. Looking down at his black dress shoes, he felt incredibly uncomfortable.

The chatter of bureaucrats, the laughter and the stifling pall of tobacco smoke was enough to choke him. Why on earth was he even here? Nadia said she would have information by the end of the night, but it could not come any faster.

He was too busy swirling around his glass to notice his best friend call his name.

"Rentoshka," said Holland, "why are you in the corner like you got scolded? Come in and join me."

"I can see everyone from here just fine, Holland."

Holland sighed, and stood his friend up off the wall.

"My brother, everyone knows that if you try to have fun, the party goes much faster. If you stay there all night, it'll just take longer to get out."

"…I just don't feel comfortable like this. Bumping shoulders with all these bigshots, the fancy food and drink…it's just not me."

"Hey, I don't like fancy outings either. But it's also a good way to get some information on Dewey. The sooner we engage and talk, the faster we get out of here and start tracking my brother down."

Not a minute passed to consider the suggestion when Holland led Renton by the arm into the crowd. Both spotted some familiar-looking faces as they did.

"See that man with the glasses and mustache?" Holland whispered. "That's Foreign Minister Molotov."

"Oh yes, I've heard of him. Doesn't he only know four English words?" Holland chuckled quietly.

"Da, da. 'Yes,' 'no,' and 'second front.' He would always say those words whenever Stalin had a meeting with Churchill and Roosevelt."

"What makes you think he knows anything about Dewey?"

"For all we know, Dewey could have fled to another country. If he did, there's a good chance the Commissariat of Foreign Affairs would know."

Into their path came a general, his entire chest lined with medals. He had a craggy brow and more scars on his face than Jerusalem's walls. His wild head of black hair and steely eyes seemed familiar to Renton somehow. When he heard the general's voice, he instantly remembered.

"Comrade Thurston! My dear lad, what are you doing here in Moscow?"

"G…General Chuikov? Is that really you?"

Chuikov smiled and embraced the young boy, kissing him on both cheeks as a father would his son. Holland, satisfied to see his friend engaged, left him to deal with Chuikov as he continued on. Renton never thought he would see this man, his former commanding officer and the man who bestowed him a hero's title, after Stalingrad. He had evidently risen in ranks and in status thanks to his many successes on the battlefield.

"It's good to see you again, General. How is everything with you, now that the war is over?"

"Any day when there is no war is a good day, lad. I've been recalled to Moscow for a reassignment."  
"Where?"

"The Central Committee hasn't said yet, but I think I may be posted to commander of Soviet forces in Germany. However, I don't think it will last long."

"Why?"

"The war is over! There's no enemy left to fight. The only battle we have left is to rebuild what we've lost in this war."

"We can certainly agree on that, General."

Chuikov patted Renton on the shoulder, and reached into his pocket.

"By the way, General Novikov told me you would be here, so I figure I should give this to you now."

"What…?"

From his pocket Chuikov produced a small black box, and opened. Inside was a medal. Another laurel to add to Renton's commendations. A small circular piece of bronze displayed a line of marching soldiers bearing their arms, and above them along the upper circumference was inscribed the words:

 _FOR THE DEFENSE OF STALINGRAD_

"You went away before the battle ended, but you deserve this as much as any man killed or wounded."

Renton's jaw dropped at the sight of it. It wasn't nearly as high an honor as being designated a hero, but even a 'participation' medal like this one felt undeserved. He was only in the fight for such a short time before he left. Before he tried to move on with his life.

"General," he started, trying to refuse, "please, I couldn't—"

"You can, and you should. Think of this as my personal thanks."

Chuikov pinned the medal on Renton's jacket, right next to his others. He didn't say anything more, but seeing that medal made him wonder; just how were things in Stalingrad now? Was there any hope for that city to regain its former face?

"I…thank you, General. It's an honor. How is everything in Stalingrad, by the way? Do you know?" Chuikov sighed and shook his head, hinting at some deeper frustrations.

"Reconstruction is still ongoing, but it's been slow. The war effort took more precedent, so the country couldn't afford to divert many resources."

"Is the Novikov family flat still standing, at least?"

"Well…"

He looked over, and saw General Novikov himself, conversing another minister. Chuikov's eyes betrayed a sad fate.

"About a year ago, around the time of the Normandy invasion, the flat…collapsed." Renton stifled a gasp and covered his mouth with one hand.

"W-what?"

"There was a structural failure, due to damage suffered in the siege. It just fell apart. I'm so sorry, lad."

Renton was left speechless, realizing now that the Novikov family had no home to which to return. Eureka really was anchored to him now, as was Holland, at least until he met Talho. He could only wonder what kind of future lay in store for what remained of the family now.

"Speaking of that, I remember you came to Stalingrad looking for General Novikov's daughter. Did you find her?" Renton blushed slightly at the question, and averted his eyes.

"Y-yes, sir, I did."

"And how are things with her now?"

"Th-they're much better. She wanted to come with me back to America, so I said she could. We're…" His face grew redder. "…we're engaged right now."

At that, Chuikov could not help but smile and laugh, hugging the young hero. Renton thought he would die of embarrassment, but in truth, he didn't mind it. He always thought Chuikov was a kind man, a man who cared for the wellbeing of his soldiers and his friends. Even here, there were still good people.

"Pozdravlyayu tebye, moy molodoy drug!" (A/N: Congratulations, my young friend!)

As Chuikov laughed and continued congratulations, another high-ranking officer came by upon the duo. A man with a shaved head who appeared to outrank Chuikov. Renton sensed it as the general saluted the man.

"Please, Vasili Ivanovich, there's no need for that. We're not on the frontlines anymore."

"Renton," Chuikov explained to Renton, "allow me to introduce my superior and the former commander of the 1st Belorussian Front: Marshal Georgy Konstantinovich Zhukov."

The young boy felt a quiver in his shoes at hearing those words. Being in the presence of his former commander was one thing, but meeting face-to-face the man who led the attack on Berlin? One of Stalin's most trusted battlefield leaders? It was akin to being in the presence of the Lord himself. He didn't know whether to bow or salute when Chuikov recited his name.

"So," Zhukov said with a knowing smile, "this is 'Stalingrad's Yankee' that everyone talks about."

"Y…you're far too k-kind, Field M-Marshal," Renton said, trying his best not to stammer. "All I did was fight for five days. The ones who ought to be remembered are my comrades who gave their lives in the siege." Chuikov nodded in solemn agreement, as did Zhukov.

"No one will deny that, lad," Chuikov whispered, pensively. "This war has cost us far too much."

"More than anyone could imagine. So tell me, comrade Thurston, now that this war is over, what are your future plans?"

Renton did not think very long, but in a brief instant he saw Eureka, laughing with Talho.

"Frankly, Field Marshal, I'm a bit tired of fighting. A quiet, civilian life sounds very good to me right now."

Zhukov's smile receded slightly, as if in disappointment. The hard, far-seeing look in his eyes did not go anywhere, and Renton thought he was being examined, like a battle map showcasing the enemy forces. Chuikov likewise seemed surprised by Renton's humble prospects.

"Do you have a job back home in America, lad?"

"I do, General. I work at a pharmacy in my hometown. Although…"

He thought briefly about what to say. He did not know just who else these men were in contact with. They could easily pass on information to the NKVD to track him. He had to be careful with his words.

"…I'm thinking about switching jobs soon."

Zhukov leaned in and presented him an offer.

"Comrade Thurston, I have connections with Comrade Stalin and other members of the Central Committee. If you are in need of a good job, I can ask them to make you a military liaison with the Americans. It would pay very well, and you can live where you choose. Would you like me to put it to them?"

All of a sudden, Renton felt ill, and a wave of cold swept through his body. Even though it was the middle of summer, it felt to him like the dead of winter. His throat dried up and the insides of his stomach churned. He closed his eyes, searching for an answer, any kind of acceptable answer.

No, he would not leave his home. His place was in America, with Eureka by his side. His future was the lonely farm in the headlands, where fields of grain danced in the autumn breeze. Not with officers and soldiers. Not dealing with life and death.

He opened his eyes, but the bodies of Zhukov and Chuikov were gone. In their place stood two rotting corpses, which looked to be Germans by their uniform. One had a bullet wound between his eyes, and the other had a bloodied arm and face, peppered with grenade shards.

"Thurston?" said the German with a bloodied face. "Are you alright, lad?"

"I…I'm f-f-fine, sir," Renton managed, his breaths heavy. "I just...feel a little s-s-s-sick."

"Son," the other German asked, "I need an answer from you."

"G-give me a bit of t-time...I n-need to t-think about it..."

Renton excused himself and moved away, heading towards the exit.

Eureka and her father noticed the oak brown-haired teenager hurriedly leave. Piotr Nikolayevich was confused but the brown haired girl had an idea what might have troubled him. The elderly soldier was going to run after him, only to get a firm look of disapproval from his only daughter.

"Father, I can handle this without you."

And with that, the father stayed put while Eureka left the gala to join with her future husband. Luckily, he didn't go too far and found him outside of the building, beneath the shade of oak trees in the Kremlin gardens. He was doubled over, breathing heavily. It was just as she feared; Renton was suffering through another episode.

Wordlessly, she rubbed his back and made her presence known. Renton allowed Eureka to take him away from the party, having lost his interest in going back altogether.

They retreated across Red Square to the Hotel National, where no one would disturb them for the night.

* * *

 **A/N:** **So I just recently received the news that Eureka 7 is getting a "Eva Rebuild" style reboot with a movie trilogy, the first of which will be released this year. Needless to say, I am really ecstatic about this news, especially since Dai Sato and the old crew of the original series are doing it this time. I'd like to think that this will spark some more interest in what I'm doing with this fanfiction series as well; reviews and feedback in general has been rather scarce, unfortunately.**

 **For those who are worried I'm going to quit if I don't get more feedback, let me just say this: I'm now writing the last three chapters of this series, so it would beyond stupid to just toss it all out the window now. I'm going to finish this, simply because I've worked on it for so long. Not to say that reviews and thoughts aren't welcome, they certainly are. I'm just saying I'm not only doing this for the attention; I'm doing it because I love writing, I love history, and I love Eureka 7. It isn't any deeper than that.**

 **So please, if you have any thoughts at all, don't feel shy to write them in a review. I'm really serious about going pro and publishing these stories for real, so any thoughts are appreciated.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: As of now I am two chapters away from finishing the fourth volume, and the Historical series entirely. In light of the fact that I am so close to the end, I'm going to start posting chapters with a little more frequency. Next week I will begin posting two chapters a week, one on Saturday and the other on Sunday. If you need to catch up on the Historical series, or if you have held back your thoughts, now is the time to open up.**

 **It feels a little strange, honestly, since I cannot remember a time when I have not worked on this series. I do have other stories I have wanted to work on for some time, but it doesn't take away from the shock of it all. But enough of that; you all should be reading!**

 **This chapter is another small break, but it is important, as we learn what Dewey has been up to since the end of the war, and Eureka makes a major change. What do I mean? Read on and see.**

 **Content warning: This chapter has some moments of sensuality and physical closeness. There's no straight on sex, but it is NSFW-ish.**

* * *

 **Chapter Thirteen**

 **June 24** **th** **, 1945**

 **Hotel National, Moscow, USSR**

The victory gala continued without any further incidents, although Renton and Eureka left long before that. Even after four years, the oak brown-haired young man was still a just a figurehead. A puppet being strung along, steeped in the propaganda. He was still a tool of war.

Renton sat in his chair near a small table, pondering over so many things. He pondered over his purpose for being in Moscow, his participation in the war, and all the past errors that haunted him. If the Soviet Union still did not see Renton as a human being, why did he even bother putting himself through so much struggle? Why did he return to Russia, when all there was to him was being the "Hero of the People?"

He covered his face in frustration, trying to calm himself down. But rather than being greeted by darkness, he saw more shadows of the past.

Standing shoulder to shoulder across from the table, Charles, Ray, and Jacques looked at him with a friendly smile. As if their deaths had never happened. And yet, their wounds were clear, and blood was spattered on their clothes. Renton shook his head and opened his eyes again, not wanting to remember those terrible losses. However, he saw yet another loss, from much earlier in his long journey to now.

A young woman with short dark hair wearing a Red Army uniform, stood with a shouldered rifle, a bullet hole and red splotch right in the center of her chest. But there was not an ounce of pain in her face, and she looked rather at peace. He remembered her clearly, as the first friend he ever made in his journey to find Eureka in that great battle in Stalingrad, and the first loss he ever suffered. Sonia Zuilimova.

He blinked, and no one was there anymore. His heart was racing, his collar soaked in sweat, and his green eyes strained, but at least he was alone now. Now that he was in his room at the Hotel National, he could think things through, if only for a moment. He did take a shower the moment he and Eureka went to the room, so Renton could relax from all the tension he had felt since stepping foot on Russian soil again.

 _Just go home. This is not your fight._

The small, quiet voice of doubt came back to him, and pressed at the wound in his soul. Renton knew he was in debt to Holland. But now, he was not sure if coming to Moscow was worth losing his sanity. Maybe this was a mistake after all. However, Renton's musings were cut short when a familiar voice called out to him.

"Renton?"

The boy turned his head to see his fiancée, looking at him with concern in her grey eyes.

Eureka emerged from the bathroom, her hair tied up with the towel. She had just finished showering, dried herself off, and changed into a light blue knee-length nightgown. She approached her troubled beau at the table, sitting on the opposite.

"Are you alright?"

Renton sighed heavily. He couldn't say for himself.

"I…I don't know."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The young lad looked back at his feet, at a loss for words. Never in his whole life did he ever feel this angry in his life since his heated argument with Holland. He was nearly at wit's end. He wanted to say something and yet, there was nothing. Eureka suggested a different way to shake him out of his nadir.

"Renton, truth or dare?"

He looked up to his fiancée with the most surprised look he ever had.

"What?"

"Truth or dare?"

"We haven't played that game in a long time."

"I know. But I want to play it again. So…truth or dare?"

Renton thought for a while, wondering what Eureka was hoping to gain by this. He never thought she would go back to that game they played in their youths, after everything they had been through. While he thought it was silly, he had to release all of his stress. Somehow.

"Truth."

"I'm not sure what those generals said to you," Eureka admitted, "but try not to let it get to you. They just don't understand you like Holland, Vladimir, or I do. They could be jealous for all I know."

Renton slowly stared back at the face of his beloved, ready to speak his mind. He knew he was about to ask the impossible from her. What he would suggest next would make him sound like a coward, but he did not care. What mattered now was telling Eureka how he felt and what he wanted to do.

"Truth or dare?" Renton asked.

"Truth."

"Eureka, I think we should go back home. Just you and me." At his response, the Russian girl's eyes widened with surprise and shock.

"W-what?"

"Let's take the next train tomorrow morning and return to America. We can go back to our lives, away from all of this! We can go back and rebuild the farm and start our lives anew from there!"

Eureka looked down at Renton's hands clenching on top of hers. She could tell that he was desperate to leave, to walk away from his dark past.

"Is that what you really want, Rentoshka?"

"I'd do anything to get out of here."

Eureka gently slid her hands away from her lover's grasp, giving him a look of displeasure.

"Truth or dare?" she asked, her voice harder than obsidian.

"Truth."

"Even if we do what you're suggesting, Renton, what's next? Do we just abandon everyone here in Moscow? Do we go back to being the stubborn cowards we were just weeks ago?"

Renton said nothing, but even if he wanted to, she did not let up. The reflection of disappointment turned into a harsh glare, the kind a mother would give to a badly-behaved child.

"If we did that, it would go against everything we've done," Eureka insisted. "We would forsake everyone. Do you really want them to take the bullet for us, Renton? Do you think you can live with that guilt for the rest of your days?"

Exhausted from hearing the same arguments of Holland being repeated by Eureka, he lost any sense he had left in him. This was all too much for one man, especially as young as he, to bear. This madness had to stop!

"Truth or dare?" he asked.

"Truth," she replied.

"Of course I don't want everyone to die for us, but what am I to people now?" Renton shouted, standing up from his seat and pacing around. "Am I not a human being anymore?! Ever since I came back almost four years ago, the government just saw me as their propaganda tool, to inspire everyone to keep fighting. They would do anything to gain the upper hand, even if it meant using children. I can't escape that history, no matter how many times I've tried."

He looked out the windows, across Okhotnii Ryad towards the Kremlin. Night had fallen over Moscow, and the red brick walls were lit up. The sight was a beautiful one, but also an imposing, intimidating one. For in those walls resided the man who cared for nothing but to exploit him, and all the others who fought so hard.

"I am nothing like what they say! I am not a Hero of the People or Stalingrad's Yankee! I'm just…a man." Renton's hands grasped at his hair as he continued. "But, of course Stalin and the government don't care. They still see me as their puppet. That's how it has always been since I came back. I never wanted any part of this war. All I wanted was to find you, Eureka. I was looking for you and had to survive long enough to accomplish that mission. Why don't they see that?"

It was clear just what was bothering her fiancé, but Eureka knew the truth. She shook her head and stood up, asking the same question.

"Truth or dare?" she asked.

"Truth."

"You're wrong."

"Huh?"

"You're wrong, darling," Eureka gently replied, approaching Renton and hugging him from behind. "You are not just a figurehead or a puppet. You are so much more than that."

The girl titled his chin with her soft hand, making him look directly at her.

"You are Renton Ivanovich Thurston, my best friend, my love, my future husband, and the bravest man I have ever known. You are important to me and our families. It never mattered how skilled you were at soldiering or fighting. It was always your kindness that drew in people, your willingness to help your friends. That same kindness is why I loved you from the beginning."

"Eurekasha…"

Renton wrapped his hands around Eureka's shoulders and held her tight. He needed her warmth now more than ever.

"Thank you, my love. Thank you so much."

The lovers stood there for a moment while Renton nerves calmed. He could pour out his emotions without being judged and for that he was thankful. Eureka slowly broke away and said quietly,

"It's your turn, Rentoshka."

"Oh. Well, then, truth or dare?" Her eyes narrowed and a mischievous smile crept across her lips.

"Dare," she said, almost breathless.

Renton recognized that spark in her eyes, and knew that gentle tug at his shoulders. If there was ever a moment he needed her gentle touch and soothing moves, it was now. He felt no hesitation at his dare.

"Get in bed with me. Let me give you a night to remember."

Eureka could never say no to that dare, and she gladly careened backward onto the bed. Her head hit the white pillows and her hair spread around like rays of the sun as Renton climbed up, eyeing her with want.

Renton lowered his body down to merely inches away, stopping short of collapsing onto her to gently press his lips to hers…at first. Eureka, knowing that this was also a means of therapy, a way to release all his pent-up stress and anxiety, allowed him to take charge as his tongue slipped into her mouth, crossing with hers. She breathed a soft moan while their tongues danced a tango together. No less than a minute passed when they broke apart, panting, their bodies connected by a thin trail of saliva.

"You've gotten better at this," she said, wiping her mouth.

"I'd hate to disappoint you, darling."

Renton dived down and started kissing down her neck, tracing her collar bones and shoulder with his fingers. His lips seemed to follow them as if marking a path of love to leave. Eureka hardly had the strength to say anything as she only looked towards the whitewash ceiling, lost in ecstasy. Stars from the sky and the colors of the rainbow filled her entire view, feeling only his hot, soft lips. Renton continued further south, sucking on her collarbone and pushing aside the thin shoulder straps of her nightgown.

Buoyed by her high, Renton continued further down, where the flesh was softer. Following the lacy trim of Eureka's nightgown, he found her medium breasts, standing atop the plain of her body like twin hills. When his lips traveled around her cleavage, Eureka could barely contain a gasp of surprise and joy. The feeling was akin to being drunk, where everything was exciting and new.

"So soft…" he thought aloud as he switched from one breast to the other.

Renton was intoxicated with Eureka, finding a new part of her to explore and touch. He was like a conquistador in uncharted territory, feeling a high of his own. In terms of closeness, this was just a taste of what would come after marriage. Dear God, he thought, marriage could not come fast enough if it meant nights like this.

All at once, Renton felt his entire body beleaguered by a high fever. After one last kiss on the crevice between her breasts, the fever became intolerable and he stopped. Sitting up, Renton heaved a deep sigh as he pulled off his loose-fitting white shirt.

Finally, Eureka had a moment to breathe and come down from the high she experienced. Her dazed grey eyes slowly gained focus, seeing her beau sitting up, pulling off his shirt. Four years ago, he was thinner than a rail, with no definition at all. But years of war, of running and fighting and killing, gave him broad shoulders, a tough abdomen, and a fit chest. When they rebuilt their farm, he would have the strength to lift hay and plow fields.

"Truth or dare?" Renton asked huskily.

"Dare," she said with a giggle.

"I dare you…to take off your nightgown."

Eureka blushed bright red, but she wasn't sure if it was from the heat or from his dare. Pushing aside a stray lock of hair, Eureka almost barely had the strength to lift herself up. Stripping down naked was not something for which she was ready yet, but there was something else she could do that would satisfy him.

"I will…on our wedding night." Renton chuckled and feigned a pout.

"You're not any fun…"

"…I _can_ do something else that's just as good."

Smiling deviously, she curled her arms behind him and gently pulled him down, kissing him full on the lips. At the same time, she rolled over so that he now lay on his back. She sat up, and just like their first night on the train, fanned his body with the hem of her nightgown. Her impromptu cooling was both relieving and arousing for Renton; his gaze inevitably traveled down to the confluence of her legs. There was a hint of white this time with each flap of her gown. Eureka noticed his gaze.

"Like what you see?" Renton smiled knowingly.

"I'd like it better if the view was a little…clearer."

Eureka softly laughed as she gave Renton a knowing smile. Inching forward, she kept flapping her hem until she was standing right above his head. Then she gently sat, and allowed the hem of her gown to drape over his face like a curtain. Renton blushed and sighed contently, now that he had an unobstructed view of her undergarments. White, with a lace trim around the leg holes and a small blue bow on the front, like a Christmas gift.

"Your taste in lingerie doesn't disappoint," he said slyly.

"Only the nicest for my dashing, sexy fiancé." He chuckled quietly as one hand slowly glided up her thigh.

"I wonder…what would you wear on our wedding night?"

"Hmmm…good question…"

She pondered the thought while scooting closer to Renton, giving him a full close-up of her underwear. With one hand resting on her bottom, his lips turned to kissing along her thighs. Eureka was caught off guard as she gave her answer.

"It would be…ooohh…something nice and enticing…"

"Oh?" he asked, his words dripping with want. "Are you holding out on me, darling?"

"Only because I want to save it for that night."

"Still, keeping a secret from me? Naughty, naughty…"

As if as a means of scolding, Renton pinched her on her buttocks, which almost made Eureka jump and fall off the bed.

"OOH! Rentoshka, you little devil! Are you going to do that on our wedding night, too?" Renton smirked.

"And what if I will?" Eureka only laughed as she leaned down to kiss him.

"Then you're impossible."

"That suits me fine. I can't be anything else for you…"

Their lips met, and the night of pleasure and teasing continued, until neither had the strength for anything except finding solace in each other's arms. As they slowly fell asleep, these romantic words closed out the night.

"You make me love you more every day…"

»»»»»

 **June 25** **th** **, 1945**

Nadia had long grown accustomed to sleepless nights; her career as an NKVD agent was filled with them. But even she had trouble rising out of bed after a long night of discussion with the commissar at Internal Affairs headquarters. Speaking over vodka and rye bread on how she had managed working as a "consulate liaison," their country's final triumph over fascism, and the whereabouts of Dewey was both the most uncomfortable and the most revealing experience she ever had.

As she slipped on her uniform, she silently hoped that it would not be much longer that she would keep this charade going. And that conversation with the commissar would be the last she would have.

Nadia combed back her hair one last time before sallying out of the room and down the hotel corridors to find Holland. Being the ranking officer, she figured he was the first person to speak with. She knocked lightly on the door, assuming Holland and Talho were awake. They had roomed together since the very start of this trip, unsurprisingly. There was no answer, so she knocked three more times, a little louder each time. That was before she noticed the door was slightly ajar.

It was not the first time she intruded into a person's room but after being out of the police for more than two years, it felt almost…underhanded. The concept of privacy never truly existed in her life before coming to America. Secret policemen could enter an apartment for any reason, listen in on conversations on any pretext. For much of her life, it was just part of the job. It was an expectation.

Still, this information had to be passed on. It was critical before they all made their next move. With that in mind, she cracked the door open and slipped in.

"Lieutenant Novikov?" she called, quietly.

There was no answer. Nadia tiptoed further into the room, and found Talho asleep on the bed, one arm stretched across. She seemed to be grasping at something that was no longer there, although Nadia did not have to think hard about what…or who. Even with dawn breaking over Red Square, she was still dead asleep, after a long night of…personal festivities. Her uniform had been cast aside, splayed across the floor of the room, and it told Nadia all she needed to know.

"…I'll come back later, then…"

Quietly closing the door behind her, she went down the stairs, looking for the lobby. Maybe there, she thought, Renton and Eureka might have woken up and started the day already. Renton seemed to be an early riser, as she remembered from shadowing him while working under Chertov. Eureka always chased after him trying to catch up after a night of sleeping in.

Nadia spotted the tan uniform of the Mill Valley militia, standing out against the red velvet carpet of the lobby. But any plans she had to divulge intelligence was put aside when she saw Holland was not alone. Their father, wearing the Red Army uniform, held a Calabash pipe in his hand, a thin trail of tobacco smoke rising like a spirit from the grave. Beside Holland was his younger sister, wearing a simple white long-sleeve blouse and a light blue skirt belted around her waist. They appeared to be engaged in conversation, but as Nadia listened in, it was more than just a family reunion.

"So how have things been with you, Holland?" Piotr Nikolayevich asked, the light from the chandelier reflecting off his glasses. "I guess you found yourself some decent work in America, yes?"

"Da. I'm a lieutenant in the State militia. At first, I wasn't sure what to do after arriving. It wasn't until after we came back from Normandy when they offered me a position." Piotr Nikolayevich smiled and inhaled from his pipe.

"Keeping up the tradition, then, eh? It's a good job for you, my son."

"It wasn't just tradition that motivated him, Father," Eureka responded, with slight frustration. "When he first came to Mill Valley, Holland lived on the streets, struggling to survive. He was looking for me when I thought he had been lost in Stalingrad."

Holland looked at his sister with concern, and Piotr Nikolayevich's smile receded. What she said was not inaccurate, but there was something more than a simple misunderstanding bothering her.

"It's…more than just that, Father. I have an obligation to my men. Nyet, not just to my men. I want to protect the family I have left."

Piotr Nikolayevich nodded, and blew smoke towards the ceiling. Family. It was something he fought for, too, in the long years away from Stalingrad. Ironically it was what made him answer the call of his country more than love for any leader or the fight against occupation.

"Semya vsyo," he said pensively. "Vyso v etom mirye." (A/N: Family is everything. Everything in this world.)

Eureka scoffed at such words and could no longer keep her silence.

"That's what you say now, but where were you when our family was being torn apart?"

The mood instantly soured, and both Holland and their father looked to Eureka in a shock. Piotr Nikolayevich never heard his daughter speak with such a harsh tone in her voice, or seen such a blazing fire in her ashen grey eyes. Just what had happened that changed her so drastically?

"Sister," Holland offered, not wanting to spoil their moment, "what's important is we're together now. We're alive, and so is Father."

"I know that, brother, but..."

Eureka closed her eyes and she found herself back in Stalingrad. She was back in the dark days of her life. When her father was called to the front by the Stavka, leaving everyone behind. Where her mother would write to him and worry over her husband constantly. Where she watched the violent fate of her mother.

"Where was he when Mother was worrying over him? Where was Father when Mother wept for him to return? Where was he when the Germans invaded, and destroyed our home? Where was he when…"

Eureka's hands clenched into fists as she forced herself to continue.

"…when Mother died protecting Mikhail and I?"

Eureka stared back at her father, glare softening.

"You weren't the only one fighting, you know. We all feared our lives would be snuffed out like a candle in the breeze. I know you were far away, and I know you're a soldier, but…we felt so lost without you."

Piotr Nikolayevich was left speechless, and only looked down at his boots, loosening his grip on his pipe. It was a terrible sacrilege to leave them, but he was also a general of the Red Army. When his country called, when their Great Leader asked for his skill to hold back the German tide, he could not simply refuse.

"Eureka," Holland continued, "it's not Father's fault what happened to us. He was fighting for us, too! When your country calls—"

"Holland, stop," Piotr Nikolayevich said, puffing on his pipe. "Don't say anymore. Both of you are right, but both of you are also very wrong."

Holland looked at his father, quietly and calmly smoking on his pipe. How many nights of sleep did he lose in this long war? How many nights did he spend thinking of them, and their home?

"Father, what…?"

"I admit, I was not there for you, and I still regret that. But I was fighting for you, and for Mother. I was fighting for our country, to guarantee you and Eurekasha a future in this world. Do you sincerely believe I completely forgot about you when I left for the front?"

"Nyet. Nikogda," Holland replied, firmly.

"And you, Eurekasha? Do you believe I ever forgot about you?"

"N…nyet," Eureka admitted, reluctantly.

"This is just what happens in war. I'm a general. When my country calls me, I must go, but it doesn't change anything between us. You are my children, and no war will ever change that."

Eureka sighed deeply. She knew her father was doing his job. She knew that he wanted to see them again just as much. Either way, the scars were still there. They weren't going to disappear over a day. Healing came with time and effort, after all.

"I am sorry, Father," Eureka said, regaining her composure. "You need to be patient with me. I'm not the same little girl anymore. Things have changed and I've seen and been through a lot. All I ask is you give me some time."

Their father did not have a moment to respond as Eureka left the lobby, completely ignoring Nadia who was standing next to the entrance. She headed towards the elevator, and immediately closed the doors behind her. For a moment, Nadia could not help but wonder just what that girl had seen to change her so. It was not just a battle that ripped apart her native Stalingrad, but more. So much more. Any lesser woman would have likely gone insane from what Eureka experienced. How had she not? How was she still standing above the horror?

Nadia now felt the tense air, almost choking her. But Holland had to know, as well as General Novikov. It was their family, after all.

She took one step in, and cleared her throat.

"L…Lieutenant Novikov?"

Holland noticed Nadia, pushing aside his concern for Eureka aside for now.

"Ah, good morning, Nadia. I hope you slept well."

"I slept…okay, I suppose. Is it possible I could speak with you for a moment? It's about Dewey."

"Of course. Excuse me, Father."

Piotr Nikolayevich nodded, and stared out the window onto the street, looking at the Kremlin. Holland left the lobby, and came close to Nadia, leaning against the elevator.

"What did you find out?"

"According to what Commissar Gudkov told me, the NKVD is looking for Dewey too. He did not report back to Moscow after the German surrender and is considered AWOL."

"So, the secret police know about as much as we do, then."

"Not necessarily. They have a general idea of where he might be. During the Battle of Berlin, Colonel Novikov's brigade assaulted a laboratory holding a German doctor. After the battle the colonel and the doctor relocated…alone."

"But to where?"

"Based on what the NKVD could dig up, probably to Poland. There's an old research facility the Nazis used near Warsaw during the occupation."

"Well, at least it's a start. We should head to Warsaw and start looking, then."

"I've already secured some transportation. There'll be a train waiting for us at Belorussky Station. You should get your men ready."

Holland nodded, and started to go, but Nadia stopped him again.

"What about your sister? Will she be alright?"

The young militia officer looked to the elevator, and thought of what Eureka may be doing. He could not blame her for feeling frustrated and abandoned. After losing their mother and everything of value in one shocking battle, she desperately sought refuge. There was none to be found at home, and she took the first chance to flee with Renton.

"Part of me feels the same as her," he admitted quietly. "Just give her some time to herself. She'll come around."

"Viy uvereny?" (A/N: Are you sure?)

"Da. Ya znayu yeyo luchshe kovo-nibud'." (A/N: Yes. I know her better than anyone.)

"I just fear she may bolt again, along with Renton."

"They won't. They want to see this through like the rest of us."

They parted ways, and began preparations to move. The brief respite in Moscow would soon end, and the search for Holland's aloof brother would begin.

»»»»»

Eureka looked in the mirror, and gripped a pair of scissors in her hands. She sniffed and wiped away a stray tear from her grey eyes.

A long mane of dark brown hair spilled over her shoulders and flowed down her back. It was one feature of hers that remained constant throughout the years. She sported long hair when she and Renton met for the first time. She worked hard to keep it from freezing in the siege of Stalingrad, and kept it out of her way in Normandy. With her long hair, she was reminded of a child's doll. A beautiful porcelain doll.

For her, it was the mark of the past. A reminder of when she was young, gay and free. A small fragment of memory of a time that had long since gone. She wasn't the same girl anymore. She was a woman now, about to marry. And perhaps, in the future, she would be a mother, too. The days of childhood were long past, and she needed to finally step into the world of adulthood. One last rite remained.

"Everything has changed in four years," she said to herself, picking up the scissors. "Everyone I know has changed. Now…"

She pushed over her hair down over her shoulder, and grasped it firmly. The blades of the scissors floated towards her mane, shining in the mirror.

"…now, I must change, too."

 _Knock! Knock! Knock!_

Someone was at the door, and it derailed her concentration. She suspected it was her father again, hoping to make amends for a perceived slight. Sighing, she headed towards the door, hoping to send him away and be left in peace. There was not much time of peace left for her, after all.

"Father, I said—"

"Eureka?" a feminine voice interjected. "Are you ready yet? We'll be leaving for Belorussky Station soon."

Eureka opened the door, and found that her visitor was Sergeant Talho Yukieva, fully dressed in her tan militia uniform. An M1 Garand semiautomatic rifle was slung over her shoulder, along with her rucksack and field kit. She looked to be ready to march off to battle. However, Eureka sincerely hoped there would be no need for any gunplay this time.

"Oh, Talho," she said with a sigh, "I'm terribly sorry. Yes, I'm ready."

"Where's Renton?"

"He's getting breakfast. He told me it might be the last meal he'll have for a while."

"Oh, he worries too much," Talho thought aloud with a smile. "It's not like we're in Normandy! We're not fighting Germans this time."

"Maybe, but still…"

Eureka trailed off, and Talho could see something was on her mind.

"Are you alright, Eureka? Something the matter?"

"Hmm? Oh, as a matter of fact, I could use your help with something."

"Sure. What is it?"

"Actually…" She opened the door wider. "…Could you come in for a moment?"

Talho followed her to the bathroom, and was surprised to see Eureka holding a pair of silver scissors. Now she was deeply curious as to what this was about.

"What are those scissors for?"

"Talho…I…"

Eureka spun around and stared her friend dead in her brown eyes. Her grey ones were alight with a flame of determination.

"…I want you to cut my hair!"

Talho's jaw nearly dropped upon hearing the request. Why on earth would she ask for such a thing? And why now, of all the times? She could not picture Eureka without her long, wavy, beautiful hair. It was even a point of envy for Talho.

"Cut your hair? Whatever for?"

"Please, Talho, just cut it for me! I want it short, short enough so it's out of the way."

"Your hair was not a problem before. Want to tell me what's really going on?"

Eureka sighed, and set the scissors down. Looking in the mirror, she could see the reflection of a child. A child still stuck in the past, wanting to break away.

"Talho, I just want to start over new again. Our whole world has changed since the start of this war. I have a new home, a new future, and…soon, I'll have a new family too. We've all changed so profoundly since we met, haven't we? You're with Holland now, I'm about to be married…and…I'm grown up now. I'm not the same little girl Renton found when he came back to Stalingrad."

"Eureka, what are you saying?"

"Everything and everyone has changed, Talho. So, I have to change too. I need to leave everything about my past _in_ the past. So, please, Katya…cut my hair. This is a new start for me."

Talho hesitantly picked up the scissors, and stood behind Eureka. When they first met, Eureka was a completely different person. Shy, vulnerable, unsure of herself, and unsure of her future. Through their shared privations in Chertov's assassination plot and the bloody Normandy campaign, she had transformed like a caterpillar into a butterfly. She was confident, strong, and determined to carve a future for herself with Renton. She had become quite a woman. A woman any man would be lucky to have.

As Talho grasped at her wavy mane, and brought the scissors to it, she looked to Eureka's grey eyes one last time. She saw in them a blazing fire, one that could light up the night.

"Are you sure about this, Eureka?"

"Yes, I am. I want to start fresh, and this is the first step." Talho sighed and smiled knowingly.

"Alright, if you're sure. Don't come crying to me if Renton doesn't like the look, though."

She laughed, and so did Eureka. This was something she had to do, without the approval of anyone, not even Renton. This was a rite of passage only she could do.

A long sheet of brown fell to the tiles with a snip.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: Happy April Fool's Day! This update is no joke! Eh? EH? (I'll see myself out...)**

 **Starting now, I will be uploading chapters twice a week, one on Saturday and one on Sunday. Now is as good a time as ever to speed up the pace. We have a new location, Warsaw, and a few new and old characters coming into the spotlight. If you squint real hard, you will be able to spot a cameo of another E7 character in this chapter.**

* * *

 **Chapter Fourteen**

 **June 25** **th** **, 1945**

 **Approaching Belorussky Station, Moscow, USSR**

Renton could not stop looking at Eureka's new haircut. For as long as he knew her, her hair was long. When he first met her as a young boy, it was almost Rapunzel-length. He remembered how some of her friends deeply envied her luscious wavy hair. That sign of her innocence, her youth, was cut away. Another link to their pasts lost. Now her hair barely reached the nape of her neck, and she acted like a whole new person.

Eureka practically led the entire entourage to the train station, despite Nadia and Roza knowing where to go. Renton could barely catch up, along with the rest in their troupe, who were now joined by Vladimir and General Piotr Nikolayevich Novikov. They, too, wanted answers from Dewey. They were all family.

Eureka seemed more ready to find her brother than anyone else, and even had dressed for a fight. Dark olive green fatigues gave her the appearance of a common soldier, better placed in the Red Army than in this motley group of Americans and Russians. A scoped Mosin-Nagant rifle was slung over her shoulder, an M1895 Nagant revolver rested on her hip, and a blue beret nestled her head. She was almost unrecognizable to anyone else.

Just what had happened over the course of a few hours to change her so?

Finally, Renton caught up to his fiancée, panting.

"Jesus, Eureka, this isn't a race," he eked out.

"No time to complain, Renton," Eureka replied, turning her head. "The train will be here in 30 minutes."

The group entered the main hall, and while Nadia looked around for the right platform, Renton finally had a chance to catch his breath.

"Do you want to tell me what's really going on?" Eureka adjusted the grip to her strap to her rifle and looked down at her boots.

"I just want to find Dewey, just like everyone else."

"And that was enough for you to cut your hair? I think not."

"You wouldn't understand," Eureka responded curtly.

Renton spun her around, forcing her to look in his jade eyes. Those eyes that seemed to cut through any person in their gaze. Those eyes that seemed magnetic.

"Eurekasha, I'm your fiancé. I thought we agreed we would not hold anything back from each other. So please, just tell me why. Make me understand. Why did you cut your hair?"

Eureka sighed. She knew better than to hide things from her beloved. She felt like a hypocrite for it.

"The truth is...I want to change. Everyone is changing for the better. They all know what they want to do in life. They are ready to confront the past one last time. And I think I should too. I want to build my future and the best way to do it is by changing as well."

Renton pursed his lips, seeing the same fire in his love's eyes that kept her alive in Normandy. He sometimes wondered if she was not braver than he. Like so many others, like himself, she just wanted to put everything behind.

"I…I'm still scared," he whispered, not wanting anyone else to hear. "I'm afraid of what we're going to find."

"I am too, darling. Believe me." Eureka caressed Renton's cheek with a soft hand. "But, there is no other way around it. We can't expect to find pleasant things all the time. We'll never grow up that way. I've come to accept that now. And I hope you will too."

She had become wiser than a scholar, and harder than a rock. She truly was the bravest of anyone in their band. Any other girl would have shrunk and run away. But she, who had seen the cruelty of the world up close, had been disowned by her own country, and had as much blood on her hands as he, still stood tall. He almost felt humbled as he grasped at her hand.

"I just hate that this world can't be any other way."

"All the more reason why we need to keep surviving, no matter what. For our future's sake."

"You're such a strong woman, now Eurekasha. For our future, then."

He gently embraced her, wishing that some of her strength and resolve would pass from her body to his. He needed it now, after so many years of war and death. It was so easy to just look away and find a place to hide. But in the end, she was right. The only way they could move forward was to put the past to rest.

"I think I may get used to your haircut after all," he whispered.

"Thanks," Eureka whispered back as she hugged her lover tightly.

Just then, a whistle blew and it came from the next train. It made its way to the station and opened its doors for the passengers to exit out. They all boarded while Renton looked back to the platforms, taking in the last sight of Moscow. He silently prayed this would be their last campaign. After Dewey was stopped, there would be no more fighting. There would be no more bloodshed or heartache. There would be no more loss.

»»»»»

 **June 26** **th** **, 1945**

 **Warsaw, Poland**

Leaving the train and exiting out of the station, Renton, Eureka, and the rest of their crew might as well have been on Mars. The city of Warsaw had been utterly decimated after six long years of war and occupation, and resembled more of a desolate moonscape than a burgeoning metropolis. The remains of skyscrapers and high-rise apartments told stories of a beautiful capital, a center of culture, being slowly ground down by a ruthless occupier. Uprisings led by the Home Army to free the city as the Allies drew closer. A nation that had long been subjugated, dominated by others, yet still strong and independent.

To Eureka and Holland especially, the city reminded them of what had happened to their beloved Stalingrad, and how they had lost everything in one shocking battle. It was a potent reminder of just how much the whole world had suffered, along with them.

Amid the rubble, hidden behind men and women shuffling about trying to rebuild their once great city, was a lone Soviet officer, waiting to greet the small troupe in search of answers. Upon seeing them exit the station, he waved his cap, and ushered them to come closer.

"Good to see you have all arrived safely, comrades," he said with a saccharine smile.

His dark eyes turned to Renton, and he extended a hand.

"And you must be the famous American Russian." Renton sighed at that old moniker.

"That's what everyone calls me, anyway. Who are you, sir?"

"Oh, Agent 340 didn't tell you? I'm Commissar Stepan Pozharsky, Internal Affairs."

Renton looked to Nadia in concern. She whispered,

"No one told me we'd have another minder with us."

"Why are you here, Commissar?" Renton asked, keeping that information in his mind. "Are you taking over the operation?" The commissar laughed.

"Hardly, Comrade Thurston! I'm only under orders to observe the proceedings. Besides, I and the rest of Internal Affairs have a few questions to ask the Colonel."

The commissar waved them all to come along, as their "contact" in the Polish Home Army was waiting. Renton followed, but he was still worried. If neither Nadia nor Roza were ever told of another NKVD agent latching onto them, what could it mean for all of them?

"Moscow must have something else planned for all of us," Holland whispered to Renton with apprehension. "I don't like this, Rentoshka."

"Nor I, Holland. Be on your guard."

At the city limits, a middle-aged man with combed back black hair greeted the group. He wore an armband on his leather jacket sleeve, bearing the horizontal white and red colors of Poland, together with the letters AK. The insignia for the Polish Home Army…or what was left of it.

"Comrade Morita," Pozharsky said, smiling expectantly, "I hope we did not keep you waiting long."

The Polish partisan, Morita, paid no heed to Pozharsky's greeting. In fact, he did not even look him in the eye as he addressed the others gruffly.

"You want to find this Colonel, right? I know the fastest way to the research laboratory. Let's go."

A small convoy of jeeps waited for them on the side of a dirt road, and Morita ushered them all in. Down the dirt road lay a thick forest of tall trees. A low-hanging mist covered the forest in mystery and an uncertain portent. As the convoy made off into the woods, Renton felt a lump grow in his throat, watching the trees for any unfamiliar shadows.

The small, niggling voice of doubt prodded him again.

 _This is a mistake. You should not have come._

The mist persisted as they went deeper into the forest, flowing around the trees like a river. The war-torn cityscape of Warsaw was long behind them now, and only trees filled their vision.

Renton turned over to Nadia, sitting next to him in the back of their jeep.

"How do we know we can trust this Commissar Pozharsky?"

"We don't," she said quietly. "We just have to watch for anything he does that could be suspicious."

"You think he may try to pull something on us?"

"I don't know. It's possible the secret police want the Colonel for something else."

Renton looked ahead, with the road showing no signs of reaching an end. The forest seemed to go on forever, with the horizon darkened by mist, trees, and brush. He wondered if they were driving right into a trap. At that thought, Nadia spoke again.

"When the war started, I was called to a place like this near Kiev. The NKVD had orders to oversee what they called a 'transfer of prisoners.' The prisoners were all Polish officers and 'intelligentsia.' Turned out we were ordered to execute and bury them."

Renton looked to Nadia, his eyes wide with shock. He knew that she had been involved in repression, and was a tool of the state, but to think she would partake in a massacre of that scale was all but surreal.

"We buried them all in mass graves. Not just in Kiev, but everywhere in the Soviet Union. A place like this is good for hiding bodies…and research labs."

"What are you thinking?"

"You have managed to stay alive this far, but I suggest you keep vigilant. If something happens here, and if this is all one big trap, you should leave the country immediately. Go back to America."

Eureka, who had been listening the entire time and sitting in front, looked over her shoulder. Her grey eyes threw a thousand daggers at Nadia.

"Out of the question. We all came here to find out what Dewey is planning and why he wants Renton dead. So, that's what we're going to do."

"Are you prepared to do anything to find answers, Eureka? If Moscow betrays us, I can't guarantee we will get any answers at all."

"Let's just focus on finding the research lab."

The drive continued, until they saw a modern-looking structure on a side-road. It was cubic in appearance, constructed of metal and concrete. While there were no gates barring entrance, Renton could see some guard posts keeping watch.

The jeep convoy pulled up several hundred yards away, far enough that it was certain no one could see them coming. As they all filed out, Renton gave Nadia orders for this operation.

"No one knows we're here, so let's keep it that way. We'll see what we're up against today, and we'll come back later with a battle plan. Make sure everyone knows that."

"Yes, sir."

Renton turned to Eureka, who was checking the chamber of her scoped Mosin rifle. She was a strong, independent, brave woman. In Normandy, it was clear she had far more courage and endurance than he could ever muster. She was also the most determined to find her brother and find the real reason for his deeds. But even so, it would not bode well for any of them if they went in recklessly.

"Eureka?"

She lifted her head, and the fire in her grey eyes had not dissipated at all.

"Listen, we're not here for a fight today. We need to stay sharp and use caution out there."

"I know what I'm doing, Renton."

"That's not the issue. We don't know what's out here. Nadia could be right, and this is all one huge trap."

Eureka rolled her eyes with irritation. Didn't they have this conversation during their walk to the train station?

"No offense, but I am not waiting around to get attacked, like back in Normandy. I'm tired of letting the enemy gain the upper hand."

Renton's eyebrows furrowed and he stepped closer. Eureka always had a stubborn streak to her. It's what allowed her to survive to this day, but it also made her somewhat difficult to deal with.

"This is not like Normandy at all, Eureka. You know that. I want to find Dewey as much as you, but if we rush in head-on, we could all be killed."

Eureka averted her eyes, her stubbornness beginning to fade. Slowly but surely.

"I know…but…what else is there to do? I don't like not being able to do anything. I don't want a mere trap to deter me from finding the truth."

Her lips quivered, and her grip on her rifle tightened. Renton sensed what she needed. The same kind of reassurance she gave him in the Hotel National after the victory gala.

"What can you do? Just trust me, and all of us." He caressed her cheek with one hand and lightly grasped her arm with the other. "Nothing is going to stop us from finding the truth, but we have to be smart about this. I don't want to lose you...not after I've lost so many people already. Just be careful out there."

Eureka sighed deeply and her eyes returned to Renton's jade orbs. She smiled apologetically to her beau. He was right. Now was not the time to charge in with a hot head. They needed to think things through, like they always did.

"Thank you, darling. And I'm sorry. I guess I was getting carried away. I should know better than that." She placed her hand on his, returning the gesture. "I don't want to lose you either. I've lost too much as well."

Just as she always kept him grounded, he had to do the same for her. It was the best thing they could do for each other, after suffering so much in a long, awful war.

They ran off together and joined the rest of their troupe, hiding in the woods.

Holland peered through his binoculars, scanning for weak points in the research facility. There were security guards posted everywhere, all of them wearing the Red Army uniform. With the Wehrmacht destroyed, it was clear they would not be fighting Germans this time around. Talho lay low, staying with her section and waiting for orders to move, along with the rest of the squad of 10 militiamen. Commissar Pozharsky stayed in the back, jotting down his observations in a notepad.

The fact a secret police officer was attached to them put Holland a little on edge, but he figured it would be a temporary circumstance. After all, when they found Dewey, this whole business would end, and he'd be out of their hair.

Renton came to his friend, and asked for advice.

"What do you see?"

"The place looks heavily guarded. If Dewey is in there, he's really keen on keeping people out."

"But for what reason?"

"Maybe he's hiding something. So, how should we do this?"

"Find out what we're up against first, and then we can come up with a plan."

Holland looked behind him, and eyed the commissar. He said he was only here to observe, but secret policemen were not exactly known for their honesty. Something seemed off about all of this.

"I'm really worried about this new officer. I don't think he's here just to observe."

"I don't think so either," Renton confided, "but we can't really do anything right now. If he tries anything, we'll deal with it then."

Holland sighed. There was no time to worry about ulterior motives. He had to scout the laboratory and find a suitable way in. He turned his eyes to Sergeant Weaver, and motioned for him and his section to go around.

"Weaver, scout the left side. Yukieva, take the right. Both of you move quietly."

"Yes, sir."

The militiamen cautiously cut through the woods, searching for an opening into the research facility. Renton and Eureka decided to join Talho's section, and headed towards the right. They found a small rise of ground where the brush provided cover, and the section lay down to scout.

The main entrance to the structure, two wrought-iron doors, were guarded by a single officer. Several feet ahead of the entrance was a boom barrier, meant for checking incoming cars. However, there were no cars around Renton could see. The boom barrier was overseen by two armed men, one sitting on a chair next to the barrier and another on the other side.

Eureka peered through her scope and scanned the structure itself. She spotted a swastika imprinted on the concrete walls of the laboratory. It had been crossed out and a black hammer and sickle etched over, signs that this was once used by the Nazis during the occupation. She could only guess at what kind of horrors had occurred behind those walls. Shifting her view to the rooftops, she scanned in both directions.

A small glint caught her eye, and she focused in on it. It was the sun's reflection off a sniper's scope, peering right at the group. Eureka's breaths stopped, and a ring of sweat soaked her collar. They were being watched. If they were to survive, they had to leave now. She whispered as quietly as she could,

"There's a sniper on the roof—!"

CRACK!

A sniper's bullet whizzed through the forest and found its mark between the eyes of an unsuspecting militiaman.

In an instant, the whole base was put on alert, and the hurried voices of the security detail could be heard through the brush. Renton cursed and ordered everyone back lest they all be killed.

"How the hell did they spot us?! We've been made!"

The squad retreated, but not before Eureka returned the favor with a single shot. Her time away from the battlefield had not diminished her aim, and she managed to score a hit. The enemy sniper was killed with a shot through the heart. Knowing she would die if she stayed, Eureka retreated from the brush crawling on her hands and knees.

Soon the entire security detail was brought over to the right side of the research facility, searching for the origins of those two shots. Any hope of ascertaining an entrance and finding the Colonel this day were quickly dashed, with only escape and hiding on the minds of the militiamen.

Renton ushered everyone on, listening keenly for the footsteps behind him as he dashed through two birch trees. A distant chorus of voices was heard, and Renton spotted Russian as the language. Determined to buy enough time for his friends to escape, Renton knelt down behind the trunk of a thick birch, and aimed his rifle towards the base.

A soldier carrying a submachine gun entered his vision, and spotted the young boy. As he raised his PPSh-41, Renton fired. He knew it would draw more attention to himself and his crew, but he had to delay them. His shot found its mark in the soldier's chest cavity, and a gout of blood erupted from his left lung as he careened backward, groaning in pain. Renton cycled the bolt and readied another round, ready to stand for as long as he needed. However, whilst he expected to see more security guards arrive, he did not expect the arrival of one individual in their ranks.

Peering through his iron sights, Renton could see him clearly. He was a young man, slightly older than Renton, with a messy head of light brown hair nestled beneath an officer's cap. Greedy, hungry eyes of decadent chocolate scanned the tree line for signs of intruders. A small hint of dark stubble underneath his nose hinted at how the war had aged him. As he turned his head, and Renton's jade eyes locked with the officer's, both recognized the other in an instant.

The grip on Renton's rifle tightened.

"It's you…!" he breathed, lining the sights with the officer's head.

"Rentoshka, chyevo tiy zhdyosh'?!" Eureka called. "Poshli, davai!" (A/N: Rentoshka, what are you waiting for? Let's go, come on!)

Renton ground his teeth in frustration, and dashed away into the woods, following behind Talho's retreating squad. He looked behind him and saw the young officer calling in more troops to find the intruders. When they came back, he had to be dealt with. But that was not what concerned Renton the most as he ran at a horse's gallop to Holland, Nadia and Roza.

How was it that man, the man who always had it in for Renton and his friends, the man who was ready to fight the whole world if it meant killing him, had escaped justice? Why was that officer, that firebrand, the thorn in Renton's side and the cankerous sore spot of his past, had not been punished? Not only that, but what was he hoping to gain by working with Dewey?

"Holland, we should go," Talho hurriedly said to her commanding officer, huffing. "We've been made."

"What about a way into the research lab? We have to find an entrance."

"My men found one, sir," Weaver called, as he came up to join everyone. "It's on the other side of the compound. It was only manned by one guard before the shooting started."

"Then we need to leave," Nadia interjected. "We'll come back tomorrow morning and execute the infiltration then."

Holland looked through the trees and could see a small task force of Red Army soldiers scouring in the woods for any signs of enemies. The body of one of his squad was found, and they would undoubtedly be looking for more. The time had come to disappear, and they had to be quick. The young militia officer turned to the Polish partisan Morita, and asked for direction.

"Morita, do you know any place we can hide?"

"There's a small shack in the woods not too far from here. My men used it during the occupation."

"We'll make camp there, then. Lead the way!"

The entire group high-tailed it along an old animal trail, crossing a small stream less than half a kilometer away from the compound. Renton looked back as he crossed, hoping to see some sign of the familiar officer. The one whose face haunted him. The one he thought was long gone, consigned to the ash heap of his memory.

"Renton," Eureka asked as she crossed, "what's the matter?"

He wondered just what he should tell Eureka. How would she react if she knew that their archenemy was still alive? No, now was not the time. That officer would be dealt with by him, and him alone.

"I thought I saw something," he mumbled as he crossed the stream.

Eureka did not question it, followed the rest of the squad into the forest, and into darkness. Just when she thought this whole matter would be resolved swiftly, something came to shatter her hopes. As if everything else in her life was not already shattered, she thought.

»»»»»

 **Two hours later**

Inside the compound, Dewey looked over reports from the scientists, reporting on their project's progress. There were sounds of gunfire outside which put all else in the research laboratory on edge, but the veteran colonel did not seem the least concerned. In fact, to subordinate officers, he acted like this was a normal day.

A lightbulb flickered as he read over a record from Dr. Deckard. The German scientist he captured in Berlin proved all too willing to cooperate if it meant a pay sum. He proved to be quite resourceful, even if resources were limited.

The colonel smiled, not minding a young lieutenant who came into the room. Even if there were intruders, all the pieces he needed were in place. Except one.

"Comrade Colonel," the lieutenant greeted, "we completed reconnaissance of the area. Whoever the intruders are, they seem to have gone."

"How many casualties were taken?"

"One dead and two wounded, sir. They suffered minor injuries, and should be patched up before the night is out."

The colonel set down his papers and looked up at the lieutenant. A young man with unruly brown hair, some would say too young to be an officer. A shift of his chocolate eyes indicated something else, more concerning news, was being hidden.

"Lieutenant Chertov," Dewey said, leaning over the table, "have you more to say?"

Chertov hesitated, and shifted his feet. But the nascent fire in his eyes instantly betrayed the young officer's salient thoughts.

"…Comrade Colonel, I have reason to believe that Renton Thurston was among the intruders." Dewey raised an eyebrow at that revelation.

"And you know this…how?"

"I saw him during the firefight, sir. I have no doubt it was him. Thurston is here."

Dewey was skeptical, knowing how Chertov had always been itching to get another chance to settle his rivalry with the American. Since returning to the front two years ago, Chertov tried to seek an opportunity to go back and finish what he started. His eagerness for blood was something Dewey found a liability, even dangerous, but he kept him on. Chertov still proved to be an effective field officer, but now without any fighting, he was growing antsy again.

"Are you sure it wasn't a Polish partisan?"

"I'm certain, sir. It was him."

Dewey was about to question him further, perhaps shake the growing urge for revenge out of him when a soldier came into the room, carrying what appeared to be a uniform.

"Comrade colonel, sir!"

"What is it, Sergeant?"

"We found the body of one of the intruders. Thought at first it was some Polish bandits, but this doesn't look like any uniform I've seen the Home Army wear. Have a look."

The uniform was laid out on the table, and indeed, it looked to be foreign. Tan in color with an upright collar, it vaguely resembled the uniform of the Russian Army before the outbreak of revolution. However, as Chertov looked it over, he spotted one giveaway.

On the upper right sleeve near the shoulder, the uniform had a unit badge stitched into the fabric. The capital letters "U.S.A." were stamped in dark ink, over a blue shield which bore a golden firebird, its wings spread, flying upwards. A white star was superimposed in the center, and below the shield read the unit designation and motto.

 _ **GOD AND MOTHERLAND**_

 _ **303**_ _ **rd**_ _ **INFANTRY RGT. NATL. GUARD**_

"I know this uniform," Chertov said, breathing heavily. "The militia of Thurston's hometown wear this in the summer."

Dewey's blue eyes widened, now realizing the young firebrand of an officer may be right. No, it was impossible. What were American soldiers doing here?

"No, it can't be…!"

"Thurston _is_ here," Chertov repeated. "And it looks like he brought some friends with him." Dewey looked to the sergeant and inquired further.

"Do you know how many there were, Sergeant?"

"No, sir. We only found one body, but footprints suggest there may be at least a squad."

Chertov stepped forward, seeing a chance.

"Colonel, allow me to take a detachment and scout the woods. I can find and destroy this force, and get rid of Thurston at the same time."

Dewey had heard such volunteering like this before, but he saw a better way. A means to make the best of a bad situation.

"I agree with Lieutenant Chertov, sir," the sergeant interjected. "We have to act fast, or else those intruders will be back, and in greater numbers."

"Going on the attack is not wise, comrades," Dewey said calmly. "We don't know where they went, so we'd be marching blindly. However, I do have an idea."

He circled the desk and came face to face with Chertov. The fire in his chocolate eyes was burning hotter than usual. Even hotter than it did in Berlin.

"Lieutenant, it is certain that whoever these intruders are, they will be back. They must not find anything we have worked on thus far."

"Sir, you aren't seriously proposing we retreat?!"

"We're not retreating, Chertov. We are merely relocating, and continuing the plan. I only need to gain one more piece before putting it into action, and Thurston cannot be allowed to interfere."

"What would you have me do, then, Colonel?"

"You are to stay here, and hold off these intruders for as long as necessary. We will need all the time you and your men can buy."

"And if Renton Thurston _is_ here among the intruders?"

"Then you are free to kill him."

A hint of a satisfied smile crept across Chertov's lips, and he sharply saluted.

"As you say, sir. We will hold them off."

Chertov left the room, and ordered the sergeant to come with him. They would need to organize a defense the next time Renton Thurston and his band came back. Dewey looked on at the young officer's back with a smile of his own.

Thurston had always been a thorn in his side, a hindrance in his grand master plan. So too had been the young Lieutenant Ilya Chertov. His arrogance, his explosive temper, and his anger had clouded him, and held him back. Held the plan back. In the best outcome, both nuisances would be gone come morning. There were other officers under the Colonel's command, officers who heeded orders and did not give in so easily to vengeance and greed.

"You wanted your final score, eh, Chertov? I'll let you have it. It's what you cared about all along, isn't it? You haven't changed one bit since childhood."

The Colonel wiped off his uniform, and went back to reading the Doctor's reports.

* * *

 **A/N: Hope this gets everyone pumped up, because next chapter, Renton and Chertov finally meet again, and their final showdown begins! Who will win? Tune in tomorrow to find out. Read and review as always!**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: This is something I greatly enjoyed writing, though that happens whenever I write for Chertov. He's such a bastard that I just enjoy the chapters he's been in up to now. The fight between Renton and Chertov has been a long time in coming, and I know people will greatly enjoy reading it. So here is the epic showdown you have all been waiting for!**

 **Who will win? The American Russian or the young, vain Soviet officer? Read on to find out, and be sure to leave a review!**

* * *

 **Chapter Fifteen**

 **June 26** **th** **, 1945**

 **Somewhere outside Warsaw, Poland**

Morita had done well in finding a hideout. The shack in the woods, while modest, provided a readymade safe house. Located in the middle of a small clearing, the shack provided some lodging for those who wanted it. Most of the militiamen were content to stand watch outside in a perimeter around the safe house. Inside, Renton sat quietly on a rickety old chair, looking out the window into the woods.

His mind was not so much focused on the next battle, or what they would find in the compound, or even what to do when they found Igor. Instead, the image of his old nemesis, staring through the woods, is what haunted him more. How that firebrand of an officer managed to escape justice for his crimes, let alone survive the war, was no longer a concern of Renton's. Rather, he thought of what would finally end the rivalry he presumed was resolved.

Renton's hands curled in repressed anger. Since the time they first met, Chertov had it in for him and those who associated with him. He was arrogant, violent, and poisonous. He had enough of Igor's trust to sanction a mission to assassinate him, stay on after failure, and even run a secret compound which held a captured German doctor. What was he hoping to gain from colluding with the Colonel?

It did not matter to Renton anymore. All that he could feel was the urge to put an end to this rivalry that had persisted for far too long. The madman from his childhood must not reemerge from his past ever again.

Suddenly, his inner thoughts of revenge were cut short when someone entered the shack. It was a man his age with grey hair and icy blue eyes.

Renton looked over his shoulder and recognized his friend and commander of his bodyguard. He breathed quietly, but his hands remained clenched. Where was his rifle when he needed it?

"Oh, Holland. You have something for me?"

"Yeah. Wanted to lay out our next strategy for tomorrow," Holland replied before taking a swig of water. "After that fiasco hours ago, the security will be tighter than ever."

Renton motioned for him to sit in an empty chair as he swiveled around. One hand grasped at his belt, as if searching for a weapon.

"So, Sergeant Weaver found a way in, did he? What are you thinking?"

"He thinks the sewers are the best option to infiltrate the lab. Of course, that's the least choice I'm fond of. But, if push comes to shove, that'll be the only way."

"What would you prefer, then?"

"Well, I saw that shortcut that might lead deep underground. Maybe we can take advantage of that?"

"If it means we get in, it's good enough. There's just one thing..."

Renton hunched over, and looked down at his muddy boots.

"Holland, did you ever learn what happened to Chertov before coming here?"

Holland raised a brow at his future brother-in-law. What was he getting at, now of all times?

"Renton, you know what happened to him. He was sent to a prison back in Moscow two years ago." Renton smiled ruefully. The grip on his belt tightened.

"I wish that were true. Chertov is here. He never went to prison."

And at that sudden revelation, Holland's eyes widened to the size of Greek discs. His mouth went slack jawed with shock.

"What? How do you know this?"

"I saw him while we were retreating. He never went to Siberia, and stayed in the army."

Holland could only look down at his boots and utter,

"Christ Almighty…"

"So much for justice being served, eh, brother?"

"After all that, it was all for nothing…!"

Renton looked off to the side, and saw his Mosin-Nagant rifle propped up against the wall. He pursed his lips, and saw an opportunity.

"It doesn't have to be that way. Tomorrow, when we go back, we can finish this."

Holland heard a darkness to his friend's voice and felt a chill down run down his back.

"What do you mean by that?"

Renton's eyes turned back to Holland, and he saw a hesitance in his stance, and a sense of apprehension in his blue eyes.

"Take a wild guess, Holland. Tomorrow when we go back to the lab, and if he is still there, just leave him to me."

"And what of Eureka?"

The grip on Renton's belt loosened, and his booted foot shifted. Renton blinked, and was brought right back to Stalingrad, to that moment when he was a trigger's pull away from killing Chertov. When Eureka intervened, and saved him from a descent into madness. The image of her grabbing him from behind, tearfully pleading for him to stop remained, even as he thought of confronting his old nemesis once and for all.

"What about her?"

Holland's eyes flared with quiet shock. Was the other lad being serious? His vengeful streak was starting to get the better of him, and yet, it was understandable. But, Eureka was the only one to snap him out of the dark realm of despair.

"You are not giving her enough credit, Petroshka. She'll know about this eventually."

"And I'm sure she would like to see him gone, too. Don't forget: Igor gave him the go-ahead to kill me to begin with."

Holland slowly nodded, sighing deeply. He knew that arguing with a peeved Renton was no good for now. He was already exhausted from the surprise ambush just hours prior. They both needed sleep.

"Alright, then. We'll keep this secret. But, try not to do anything stupid, yeah? You'll be a married man soon, after all."

The former partisan frowned when Renton didn't respond to his quip. His eyes were fixated on the window. Seeing this as his cue to leave the other man be, the icy blue-eyed militia officer got up from his seat.

"I'll see you in the morning. Get some rest."

Holland left, fearing just what Renton may do when the time came to infiltrate the laboratory again. If Chertov was indeed there, he had questions for him too. How he survived for so long. How he escaped a prison cell. Why Igor picked him.

He looked up through the tree canopies, seeing an orange sky of dusk. Silently, he prayed that whatever force was possessing Renton now would dissipate by tomorrow. For his friend's sake. And for his little sister's sake.

Inside the cabin, in another room, Eureka tried her best to sleep, but could not. She only stared up at the ceiling, mindlessly playing with the long thatch of hair between her eyes. Ever since the failed reconnaissance, Renton had been acting strangely. Cold, distant, and tightlipped. Much the same way he was before he finally admitted his love for her that cold rainy Valentine's Day. The way he was when Chertov and his agents hounded and hunted him like wild prey.

No, not again. There had to be a way to help Renton through his moodiness. He was going back to that dark place that pained him so. She could not let him stay there for long. And so, the short haired teen rose from her bed and left her small room to hunt down her reclusive fiancé.

After a few minutes of searching, Eureka finally found Renton in the main room of the cabin. However, he was doing something quite unlike him. He was checking his Mosin-Nagant rifle, loading a new clip into the chamber. His broad back was turned from her. Nothing but silence occupied the room with the occasional sound of clacking cartridges.

"Renton?"

There was no response. Renton was still working.

Eureka simply sighed, and slowly approached the tall man. Without hesitation, she snaked her arms around his firm stomach as light kisses touched the back of Renton's neck. Renton stopped, but didn't turn. He only looked over his shoulder, and down at his fiancée. She didn't even try to ask him what was the matter as her hands started to unbutton his tunic. While he did not try to stop her, he did not exactly engage either. Instead he only breathed, and recoiled slightly from the touch of her fingers on his bare skin as the tunic came undone.

"Eureka…what are you…?"

The girl placed one finger onto Renton's lips, cutting off his questioning.

"Shh," Eureka whispered, hotly. "Don't talk. We both need this…"

And with that, the brown-haired girl turned him around and continued to unbutton his tunic. With a swift motion, the fabric disappeared. Eureka took her time in shamelessly examining her beau's strong and fit upper body. His bare chest had a chiseled, fine-cut finish to it, with little trace of hair.

Eureka chuckled to herself. Even at the age of 19, after every vestige of childhood had disappeared, Renton was still clinging to a more youthful appearance. Glancing back at Renton's wavering eyes, Eureka kissed him forcefully. She was letting her message clear to the oak brown-haired man, no matter how long it took.

As she kissed him with all her lustful prowess, her hands began wondering to more…unique places. From his shoulders, gliding across his chest, caressing his abdomen, ultimately resting on his lower center.

The young man felt overcome by a fever, and suddenly felt dizzy. His mind was scattered, and his thoughts a jumble. While he struggled to form a sentence in-between her voracious kisses, his hands started gravitating towards her body. Towards her thriving hips.

"Eu…pl…sto—"

Another kiss smothered any attempt to get her to cease, and his hand quickly swiped off the belt holding her trousers aloft. The buckle fell to the floor with a light thud, while her dark khaki trousers slowly slid off her body like a banana peel.

Eureka smirked proudly, and started becoming bolder. She was succeeding in easing Renton's aloofness with flying colors. The dark place would not have him this time, she thought, entreating him to confide in her and warm up to her. Her hands found Renton's belt instantly and slowly slid a hand down to pull off his pants. The next piece of clothing to go was his boxers, but that didn't deter Eureka in the slightest.

She nibbled on Renton's neck to keep him more relaxed and hot as she slid her hand in front of his boxer shorts and rubbed his center with teasing fingers.

"—AACK!"

Suddenly a light went off in Renton's head, and his mind was instantly recalled to the here and now. Every muscle in him tightened, and his body became more rigid. His hand, which had slinked behind her by this time, reflexively clenched the soft flesh of her buttocks. Eureka almost squealed in a mixture of arousal and distress, confused.

Renton backed away until he rested his back on the walls of the cabin. Eureka lost her balance, trousers still shackled around her ankles, and careened backwards before landing hard on her backside. Half-dressed, half-aroused, and completely lost in a forest of conflicting thoughts and emotions, the couple gazed at each other, panting.

"Eureka…what…?" Renton managed, his breaths heavy.

Eureka looked around her, discombobulated. Her bra and panties were exposed, and her trousers shackled around her ankles. She only thanked the stars that it was just her and Renton in the room.

"Y-you've been acting strange," she eked out, cheeks burning red. "I tried to reach out to you but you kept on brushing me off. So, I thought, maybe this is what you needed. Apparently, I was wrong."

She slowly stood up and reclaimed her trousers. She clicked them back on her body, as the heated emotions faded away. Arousal was gone, replaced with frustration and worry.

"Renton, what's going on? What happened to you?"

His hands slowly curled into tight balls and tried his best to redress himself. His body still felt hot, and Renton could only manage to half-button his tunic as he tried to search for words. For what he had to do tomorrow, she would know one way or another. But maybe it would have a greater impact if she saw Chertov for herself.

"I'm just not in the mood for this tonight. Sorry."

"Fine," Eureka insisted, crossing her arms. "But I know there is more than what you're telling me. Something happened during that ambush, and it's left you acting this way."

"I'd rather not talk about it right now. Eventually, you will understand."

"But—!"

"NO. We're done talking, Eureka! I need to get back to work."

With an irritated sigh, Eureka pouted angrily.

"Stupid Petroshka!"

The short haired girl straightened herself out and proceeded back to the bedroom with a huff. So be it, Eureka thought. If he was going to continue in this madness, it was no skin off her nose. She reckoned he would come to his senses in the morning and apologize for his foolishness anyway.

The room regained its silence, and Renton was alone again with himself, his rifle, and his ammunition. Renton picked up a spare cartridge, and threw it at the wall in frustration, cursing to the air.

"Dammit!"

Once Chertov was gone tomorrow, things would be better, he thought. Once that thorn in his side, that contemptible snake who always tried to strangle him and Eureka was finally destroyed, his world, their world, would be infinitely more livable.

"Things will be better...once Chertov is dead."

Renton's eyes opened wide and he was now back in the darkness. The only thing that kept him company (and from total blindness) was a spotlight. He was back again. Back to that place to which he always retreated in times of hardship and woe. The place of torment, regret, and anguish.

"Eureka must not know about that snake being alive. She will be put in danger."

"Not if I can help it."

Another spotlight appeared and it was the dark figure from Renton's worst nightmares. The shadow that seemed to follow him wherever he went. It was with him in Stalingrad, and with him in Normandy. His clothes were bloodied and his facial expression twisted into a grin with maliciousness and sadistic glee.

"If you want to safeguard your future and protect your friends, you know what to do."

"Hunt him down."

"Perfect. Hunt him down. And when you do…"

The deranged double couldn't finish his sentence without eliciting a manic chuckle. He faded into the shadows, and the dark place disappeared. Renton was back in the cabin, with cold silence and cold steel cartridges.

"I know. Finish the job."

»»»»»

 **June 27** **th** **, 1945**

The laboratory was quiet as the troupe of Americans and Russians slowly approached it through the morning mist. Sergeant Weaver had successfully found a place where they could infiltrate the laboratory without leaving much evidence behind.

On the other side of the laboratory, opposite the small hill where Talho's party was made previous, a lone sentry guarded a heavy wrought iron door leading into the compound. However, unless they wanted to cause another stir, there was no way to get to the door without alerting the guard. But such things were not going to stop Renton, or anyone else from getting in.

Renton eyed the sentry from behind a tree, his binoculars scanning the surroundings for any other hostiles. Nadia and Roza kneeled beside him, looking for an opening.

"Once we're in," Nadia whispered to her comrades, "we should scour around for any information that could lead us to the Colonel. Documents, audio tapes, anything."

"If we're discovered while inside," Roza interjected, "what happens then?"

"We'll take whatever intel we can and get out. Obviously."

"If they'll let us, that is."

"Come now, Roza. No need to be so pessimistic. If we could bring down Chertov together by ourselves, this will not be too difficult."

Renton's fingers twitched and his teeth ground together at the mention of that name. It was one he was determined to erase by the end of this day. He had to. For everyone Chertov had tormented and sent fleeing the country.

"What do you think is the best way to get past that guard?" he whispered.

"We need to get him away from that door," Nadia reasoned, "or just eliminate him altogether."

The young boy looked down and was about to ask how to eliminate the sentry without raising the alarm, but could see that Nadia was already forming a plan in her head. She had produced her C96 automatic pistol, and was in the middle of adding a gadget to the muzzle of the pistol. A short cylinder, black in color, was slowly screwed into place until it just touched the notched sight of the muzzle. A silencer.

"I'll leave it to you, then, Nadia," Renton acquiesced, trusting her instincts.

Nadia quickly disappeared into the forest, and slowly made her way closer to the guard, sticking to the shadows created by the trees and their canopies. She snaked around the sentry so that she was approaching from his right while avoiding the notice of other guards in the area. Renton watched with a tensed hand as his "minder" and confidante slowly crept towards the wrought iron door.

She raised her pistol, lining the sights with the sentry's head and paused. It took a steady hand and steely nerves to kill again, so soon after swearing an end to it.

 _BLAP!_

A muffled shot, barely audible, whizzed through the air from behind a fuel barrel and contacted the sentry's temple. A blast of red and a dying grunt followed. Nadia quickly dived to catch the tumbling sentry's body, and gently set him down, giving him the appearance of sleeping. As she scavenged the body of any keys or any other clues to help them in searching the laboratory, the rest of the troupe came down and gathered around the wrought-iron door.

"How should we approach this?" Holland asked. "We don't exactly know if brother is even here."

"For now, we should just look for intel," Roza suggested. "There is bound to be some evidence lying around about where he is, if he's not here."

"Search for anything and everything you can," Nadia concurred. "Whatever you find can help us. Even taking a couple of prisoners may help."

Holland could not argue with that, and relayed as much to the surviving members of his squad. Nadia turned the keys in the heavy iron door, while Roza suggested another strategy.

"We will cover more ground if we split up. Nadia and I will work our way around."

Renton did not protest. It would be crowded if they all infiltrated through the same entrance.

"Alright. Just move quietly."

The door opened with a heavy creak, and the militiamen filed in. Eureka followed, along with Commissar Pozharsky, and Renton brought up the rear before conferring with Nadia one last time.

"Remember," Nadia reminded, "if anyone can help us, be sure to bring him back."

Renton nodded, but if he had any say, he would not bother with Chertov. It was doubtful he even had information to divulge, and even if he did, the petulant and arrogant officer would sooner die than give it up. It wouldn't matter anyway. Chertov's life would end soon, and they would find a ready source of information. One way or the other.

Nadia left the group, and Renton closed the door behind them. With it, any natural light soon faded, leaving only the dim, foreboding lights in the corridors' ceiling.

The narrow corridors felt claustrophobic, and the whole group was tightly packed like cattle in a boxcar. Renton looked around and kept his rifle on a swivel, every shadow earning his suspicion. The rest of the group was likewise apprehensive, and slightly intimidated. It was not the first time Holland had ever entered a hostile structure, but something was different about this. The enemy was not clear-cut, and the battle lines were not as clearly defined.

Eureka would check behind her, making sure that no one was following them. But the darkness, not soldiers, seemed to follow them and surround them. Upon viewing Renton, who looked as tired, paranoid, and on edge as he was in Normandy, she could not help but wonder just what he saw yesterday that changed him so.

Could it be there was something else lurking in this laboratory that concerned him more than her brother?

The squad of soldiers reached a small crossroads where the paths split into three. None of the corridors had any defining feature to distinguish them from each other, and so all were lost as to where to go next.

One soldier stepped forward, and looked down all three corridors, trying to find some signs of where they were going. The worst that could happen to them all was to be lost in a maze of concrete and lead pipes. The furthest corridor to the left, however, held a surprise for the young militiaman.

Something rolled along the paved ground and to the soldier's booted foot. A soft, ticking sound earned his curiosity as he looked down. But the sight terrified him.

A live fragmentation grenade.

"Everyone, get the hell ba—!"

BOOM!

The grenade detonated and sent shards in all directions. The militiaman was killed, and the entire group was thrown into a panic as they ducked and tried to avoid the spread of shards. Through the smoke and cordite, Renton spotted a familiar-looking shadow hiding in the left corridor, which quickly disappeared. He looked to be an officer. For Renton, he didn't need any more confirmation.

"It came from down there! All of you, come with me!"

Renton leapt over the dead militiaman and started after the shadow, his Mosin-Nagant rifle at the ready with bayonet. Eureka was amazed at how fast he could run, and instantly knew there was something else in this laboratory that was driving him. Something else that pushed him away from her the other night. She took her feet and sprinted right after her fiancé, and was soon followed by the entire squad of militiamen. Even Commissar Pozharsky tried to urge Renton slow down.

"Wait for us, comrade! Where are you going!?"

"He's here…!" Renton panted, his eyes fixed on the shadow as it disappeared around the corner. "I know it…he's here!"

A foreboding vibration in his voice betrayed everything to Eureka, who tried to keep up. Her vision became blurry as she slid to a halt, and reached for canteen. At that moment, Renton likewise stopped, just short of a large room with a high ceiling, where bright floodlights bathed the room in illumination. Renton rested on the walls of a door frame, staring intently across the room. As Eureka looked up, and as the other militiamen finally caught up with Renton, she instantly recognized the figure Renton chased so doggedly.

And with it, she realized just what had driven Renton into that dark place so easily again.

Across the room, guarding an entryway into another dark corridor, stood a young man in a Red Army uniform. He was about Renton's age, maybe a little older. His eyes, deviously glaring at Renton, were of a dark, decadent chocolate that seemed to hunger for power. His hair was also a shade of brown, raggedy and windswept beneath a peaked cap bearing the hammer and sickle.

The uniform was that of an officer's, specifically a full lieutenant, as indicated by the shoulder boards and the dark blue dress trousers with red piping. The tunic was a dark forest green, with an oak-colored Sam Browne belt extending over his shoulder and across his waist. The belt held up his two primary weapons: a holstered M1895 Nagant revolver, and a pristine saber, the kind worn by officers in wars of old. It seemed hilariously out of place after the most mechanized, industrialized, and modern war the world had ever seen.

A sickeningly smug grin was plastered on the officer's face, which only grew wider as Renton slowly, silently, stepped into the large room.

"So!" the officer said jubilantly, his arms opened wide, "my eyes weren't playing tricks on me! It really is you, isn't it, Renton Ivanovich Thurston? The American Russian?"

"It _is_ you," Renton returned, his voice low and laced with anger. "Ilya Pavlovich Chertov."

"That's LIEUTENANT Chertov to you, Yankee scum!" Chertov glanced over at Eureka, who was left wide-eyed at the revelation. "Eureka, is that really you? I almost didn't recognize you with your new haircut! So lovely for you to come as well!"

Eureka was almost choked with shock, unable to speak. Holland, who was told beforehand of Chertov's return through Renton, glared at the insufferable bully of his childhood.

"Son of a bitch…" Holland growled in his native tongue.

"Surprised, are we?" Chertov said mockingly. "Who were you expecting instead?"

"Anyone but you," Eureka managed. "You should be in prison, in Siberia somewhere…!"

"I thought that would be my fate, too. However, your brother is very kind, and offered me a way out. Seems that when Mother Russia has enemies, she is not picky on who fights for her."

"What the hell are you doing here, and why are you working with Igor?"

"Patience, Eureka," Chertov sneered. "I will answer everything in due time. But first, I have some business to settle with your Yankee boyfriend."

His brown eyes turned to Renton, his greatest rival and the thorn in his side. The wound left by that thorn had grown infected, spreading throughout his body. The arrogant smile was wiped away, and Chertov's brow dipped sharply between his eyes.

"Since I was escorted out of America that day, I never stopped thinking of how to finish what I started. All those months spent fighting Germans, and following Colonel Novikov's orders were months I spent planning, preparing. The one thing that kept me going and kept me alive was my SINGULAR HATRED for you!"

"That may be," Renton replied, a fire burning in his jade eyes, "but I've beaten you before and I can do it again."

"We shall soon see about that, Thurston," Chertov smirked with evil glee.

However, Holland stepped forward two steps and interrupted the stare down between the two young men.

"Ilya, before anything happens, I have one question for you," Holland said. "I've been thinking long and hard about the destruction of Stalingrad. But, one thought remains; what really happened to Mikhail Novikov? Do you know anything about that?"

The room suddenly fell deathly silent. Eureka, Renton, and Talho glanced at Holland, as if he was speaking a different language. Chertov callously shrugged.

"He died in the siege, by German bullets, I would think. You don't even remember how your own brother died? That's cold, even for you, Holland." Holland glared, knowing such claims to be false.

"You're lying."

"How do you know?"

"He died after the siege, not before. Before I fled the city, I went back to the flat to take him with me. I found him dead with a bullet between his eyes. Now you want to try again, Ilya?"

"Tell us the truth," Eureka demanded, slowly raising her sniper rifle in Chertov's direction. "Tell us or I'll shoot it out of you!"

Chertov glanced at Eureka, then to Holland, and then to Renton. Renton had the hardest, most menacing glare of them all. He looked ready for a fight. Chertov chuckled, which soon gave way to a long, hardy laugh. That insane cackle that Renton thought he would never have to hear again.

"You're insistent, and I'm in a generous mood, so what the hell? I'll indulge."

Chertov reached for his breast pocket, and searched around for something. What he produced made Eureka shudder and almost drop her rifle in agony. A pair of circular-rimmed reading glasses, dirty, smeared with blood on one lens. A ghastly memento.

"I wish you could have seen him, Holland," Chertov gloated. "It was truly a sight to behold. He was on his knees, begging me not to do it. Begging me to stop my rivalry with Thurston, and to spare you! He had the same look on his face you have, now, Eureka! The utter shock and dumb confusion! Oh, it was fantastic!"

Chertov threw his head back and guffawed, peering through the blood-stained lens into the floodlights.

"That's all you know how to do, isn't it?" Renton asked, his voice lower than a double bass with anger bubbling to the surface. "YOU JUST MURDER EVERYTHING!" Chertov swung his head, with a dull look in his eyes.

"Just the ones I think deserve it, Thurston. And by the end of today, I can add you to that list…" He looked back at the squad of soldiers, and chuckled. "…and the rest of you, if you're so inclined."

"That's not going to happen. You're not killing anyone today, or ever again."

At that moment, Renton looked back over his shoulder and to Holland and the squad of militiamen.

"All of you, keep moving, and find what you can. I'll deal with Chertov."

"Renton, are you sure?" Talho asked, apprehensive.

"Leave us, Talho," Eureka insisted, peering through her sniper scope. "Renton and I can handle him just fine."

A moment of silence passed, as the two rivals stared each other down, waiting for the other to make a move. As much as Holland thought otherwise, they did have to search for Igor, and hints to his plan. He had to trust Renton and Eureka this time.

"You heard him, men," he ordered. "Let's keep moving and find my brother."

They started to go, but Chertov immediately fired a shot from his revolver, the bullet whizzing by Holland's head.

"I don't recall allowing you to leave, Holland," Chertov said through gritted teeth. "I need to finish the job I started in StalingraAAACK!"

Any plans Chertov had for the Novikov brother and militia officer were canceled out by Renton charging and tackling Chertov to the ground. As they tussled, Renton screamed,

"Holland, GO! NOW!"

He didn't need to hear anymore, and Holland quickly led the squad out of the room and onward into the corridors, deeper into the laboratory. Talho only took a quick glance back, watching her two friends struggle with Chertov. She silently prayed that this time, Chertov would be dealt with for good.

Amid Holland's hasty move out, Chertov finally kicked Renton off of his body, and stood up, only to find the militia officer gone. However, as he went to swiftly deal a blow to Renton, Eureka cocked her sniper rifle and fired a warning shot. That got Chertov's attention, as he eyed her with malice.

"That's a big gun for a little girl, Eureka."

"I'm not the same little girl you knew in Stalingrad, Ilya," she breathed defiantly.

The officer laughed and approached her, seeing for himself just how much she had changed in three years. She had grown taller, about a head shy of Chertov. Her body was more filled out, and no longer that of a child's; she looked like a fully-grown woman. The shortened hair highlighted her grey eyes which no longer showed fear; only determined resolve. The lips were pursed, no longer trembling as they so often did in childhood.

The frightened, vulnerable, innocent young girl was long gone. In her place was a strong, confident, resolute woman.

"I can see that," Chertov hissed with a smirk. "How enchanting you are now, my dear…"

One gloved hand traced along her cheek, and Eureka's blood ran cold. But she did not shrink from her old neighbor and bully's touch. Instead she swiftly reached for a combat knife on her belt, and slashed upward. The leather of his gloves was cut, and her blade showered in blood. Chertov screamed in pain, but Eureka was not done yet; another jab cut across his right cheek, and left it with a horizontal scar of red. Chertov backed away, covering his cheek.

"Agh, you turncoat bitch!"

Before Chertov could do anything more, he felt a strong force from behind throw him to the floor. Renton was on him once again, brandishing his rifle tipped with bayonet. Chertov gripped the stock of the rifle, using all his might to keep Renton from quickly stabbing him. As Renton leaned forward, resting his weight on the rifle, it provided Chertov the opening he needed. A swift kick to the stomach threw Renton off once more, and the officer quickly regained his footing. He laughed, and one hand rested on the hilt of his dress saber. It was time to finally settle the score, the way men of old did.

"Keep your eyes on me, Chertov! Our fight is the only one that should concern you."

"Heh, I see you're eager for blood. Let's finish this once and for all, shall we?"

"Nothing would satisfy me more," Renton huffed, leveling his rifle at his old nemesis. Chertov grinned.

"I have long dreamt of this day, American."

The officer grasped the hilt of his saber, and unsheathed it in one swift motion. Hardly a modern weapon, obsolete in the age of tanks and planes, but for him it still meant something. It meant his status as an officer, a rank for which he witnessed and partook in untold horrors to earn. It meant his survival to the end of this bloody war. And now it would be the weapon which struck down his greatest foe. The boy whom he never forgot or forgave.

"Now, say goodbye, American Russian!"

The two young men charged each other, and clashed in a mixture of sparks and splinters. Eureka could only watch, and with each slash, each grunt, each parry, she could feel the rage and anger boiling over in her fiancé. Anger that this man, this firebrand who all but chased the two of them out of the Soviet Union in the first place, was still alive. Rage that he had never been brought to justice for his crimes. Anger at the unjustness of the world for allowing men like him to flourish. Rage that it was only now, and not two years' prior, that their rivalry would at last be settled.

Eureka raised her sniper rifle and peered through her scope, watching, waiting for any sign where she could intervene. Sadly, this was not a fight she could resolve. It had to be settled by Renton.

After several jabs and kicks, the two rivals circled around, looking for an opening to exploit. It had not been several minutes, and already both were panting, trying to catch their breath. This fight would take every ounce of strength they possessed.

"Why have you come back, Thurston?" Chertov demanded. "What business have you here?"

"Igor sent someone to kill me, and I want to know why."

"The Colonel did? I thought he had forgotten about you, honestly. Well, I suppose it's just as well. He always said you were a hindrance."

"To what?"

"To our grand plan. To our future. A free, and ordered world without bourgeois parasites like you!"

"Then what the hell is Igor planning?"

"You'll die wondering, Thurston. I'll sooner see you buried than let you interfere!"

Chertov raised his saber over Renton's head and swiftly brought it down, only to be blocked by Renton's bayoneted rifle. With great force, Renton slid the blade out of the way and tried to club him with the rifle butt, but to no avail. Chertov blocked it, and cut across Renton's hand. The American winced, but was undeterred, trying instead to stab Chertov's leg. The bayonet managed to penetrate the officer's pantleg, and sliced into his left calf. Chertov only grew aggravated, and shoved the young boy away before producing a grenade.

However, when he threw it, it did not produce any explosive boom, or a shower of shrapnel. A large puff of grey smoke clouded Renton's vision and choked his lungs, providing the avenue of escape the young lieutenant needed. A heavy clop of his boots betrayed his direction: into the dark hallway behind him, where an array of gas pipes lined the walls.

Renton swiped away the smoke, and saw the black heel of Chertov's boot disappear into the darkness of the hallway. He growled in frustration and started after his rival.

"COME BACK AND FIGHT ME, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

"Renton," Eureka cried, "where are you—?"

"Stay here, Eureka!" Renton ordered. "I have to do this alone!"

Eureka wanted to disobey, and follow her beau, but something compelled her to stay. She could not find the strength to move, and only watched as the hem of Renton's brown tunic faded into the blackness of the corridor.

Illumination was a luxury in this hallway, and there were many paths to take. Myriad places to hide. Renton checked his rifle to see how much ammunition he had. Five rounds. It would surely be enough to incapacitate him if he shot at every limb, with one round for his heart. Nothing would be more fitting an end for the man that caused him and Eureka so much pain. Renton scanned the corners, checking to be sure he would not be flanked. This laboratory resembled more and more a twisted maze, a maze that went on forever. Just how much was hidden here?

"Chertov!" Renton yelled, his voice echoing. "COME OUT!"

No answer. Only a slight whisper of a breeze as he went further down. Straight was the only path he could reliably take without getting lost. Chertov wanted to finish this score as much as he did, so why just run away?

"Face me, you coward!"

As he passed a hallway to his right, Renton looked to see his nemesis ready to strike, waiting in the shadows. Chertov lunged forward, the edge of his saber aimed right at Renton's neck. Renton quickly blocked the attack with his rifle stock, and tried to retaliate with a blow to Chertov's head. However, he only managed dig into his stomach with the rifle butt. The fight continued, and Chertov was unrelenting. He delivered a strong kick to Renton's left shin and knocked him onto one knee.

It seemed like his fate was sealed, but Renton was not about to let Chertov have his way. The young officer swiftly dropped his saber like a great guillotine, but Renton parried it with his rifle. Chertov grunted and strained as he tried to overpower the American. He bore his stained teeth and his chocolate eyes were filled with hatred, like some rabid animal.

"Why are you working with Igor?!"

"He offered a chance for me to kill you, and I took it. There's nothing more to it!"

Renton finally dug in, and swung his rifle around to knock Chertov across the left temple. That move threw him off balance and gave Renton enough time to stand up. He leveled his rifle and fired, but Chertov was quick and sidestepped the shot. The bullet left only a blackened hole in the concrete walls, but Renton was undeterred. He threw his body forward in a bayonet charge, aiming for Chertov's abdomen. The young officer parried the attack with his saber, and forced the young boy over to the right, where he was open to a blunt punch in his face.

The punch threw Renton back and landed him against the wall, and Chertov seized the initiative to finally kill him. He swung his saber around like a bat, and tried to cut down his rival with a slash across the boy's throat. However, Renton parried the blade with his bayonet from the left. Then the right. Then the left again. The American flung his booted foot outward and it connected with Chertov's shin, derailing any further attack and sent him back against the wall. They eyed each other, panting, struggling to catch their breath and find another way to prevail.

"I told you once that I had broken your hold over me," Renton hoarsely shot at his nemesis. "You couldn't hurt me or anyone else anymore."

"And I told you," Chertov retorted, his voice resonating with hatred, "that this conflict of ours would only end in death. Yours or mine." The officer leveled his saber, preparing to strike. "There's no militia for you to hide behind here, Thurston."

The blade made a heavy swipe at Renton's head, but he ducked in time for the saber to hit the wall with a loud clang. Before Chertov could retract, Renton thrust his rifle forward, and landed a score on the officer's right thigh. Chertov cried out in pain and tried to bash in Renton's head with the hilt, but could only manage to shove him off. The bayonet was sheathed in blood now, and Chertov flailed his unwounded leg in a roundhouse kick, knocking Renton over before gaining some distance.

"Good thing I don't need them to save me, this time!" Renton shouted defiantly, cycling the bolt of his rifle.

He fired another shot, and the bullet grazed Chertov's right ear, bathing his neck and cheek in red. But a simple flesh wound was not enough to send him into submission. The officer was a veteran of four years of war, and he would not rest now until Renton was dead. He reached for his revolver and fired a shot, then two. One bullet connected with Renton's arm, and managed to slow him before he could charge again. Chertov backed away, wondering what he could do to retard his nemesis' energy.

He fought ferociously, as fiercely as he did in Stalingrad. A man like him, who always hated fighting, who hated war and killing, had the strength of a lion in combat. How was it even possible?

They came into another large room, where the paths split in different directions. Behind Chertov he seemed to find his solution. Two soldiers, veterans that served him well on the Eastern Front, stood guard at the center path. They readied their weapons at the sight of their officer, retreating and bleeding from his ear and leg.

"Karataev! Alekseev!" Chertov hailed them. "Thank God I found you. We have an intruder here!"

Before Chertov could explain further, Renton stepped into the room, cycled the bolt of his rifle and readied another round. Alekseev recognized the young boy as light shone on his face.

"It's…it's the American Russian!"

"Renton Thurston?" Karataev stated incredulously. "Last I heard about him he was fighting fascists in Normandy."

"Yeah," Chertov sneered, looking over his shoulder, "before he finally got tired and went home!"

Renton sighed, expecting to hear such taunts from Chertov. Before, such insults nagged and gnawed at him. But now, they were meaningless, signs of how petty Chertov's squabble with him truly was. He raised his rifle, and fired. The bullet penetrated the heel of the young officer's boot, who screeched in pain. Renton nonchalantly cycled in a new round and quipped,

"Nothing personal. I just wanted to shut you up."

Chertov seethed and ground his teeth before turning to his two subordinates.

"Be so kind as to fill that Yankee with lead!"

Renton now aimed his rifle directly at Chertov's head, as if daring him to give the order. Chertov snidely laughed and produced his revolver, aiming right back at him.

"Do svidaniya, Thurston!" (A/N: Goodbye, Thurston!)

There were no gunshots. No loud cracks or snaps of ricocheting bullets. There was nothing but deathly silence as the four men all looked at each other, waiting for someone to fire the first round. Chertov quickly grew impatient, and returned his gaze to his two slow soldiers.

"Did I stutter or something? I SAID SHOOT HIM!"

Alekseev and Karataev looked briefly at each other, and then back at Chertov. This officer whom they had the misfortune of serving under through the entirety of the war. A man who was always obsessed with a vendetta against a boy that anyone else would have long forgotten. A man who always acted too big for his boots, with arrogance that exceeded his oversized uniform. Karataev frowned and spoke simply.

"Nyet."

Chertov twitched at the refusal.

"Nyet? Nu shto tiy, nyet?! You worms do whatever I tell you to do!" (A/N: What do you mean, no?!)

The two soldiers looked back at each other, and shouldered their weapons. This farce had gone on long enough. The war was over, for heaven's sake. Couldn't this man just let the past go? Couldn't he just move on?

"Not anymore," Karataev said resolutely. "Our discharge came through today. We're done, comrade Lieutenant."

Chertov's eyes almost burst out of his sockets, lost in shock and anger. These men, who had competently served at his side and survived the whole war, had the gall to desert him now? After everything? The thought alone was inconceivable. Renton only laughed heartily.

"You really are pathetic, Chertov."

"What do you intend to do, then, comrades?!" Chertov spluttered, ignoring Renton's jab. "Who's your new officer?! I'll have you court-martialed for this!"

"You can't court-martial us, sir," Alekseev said plainly, walking past his former officer. "The war is over, and we're not soldiers anymore."

Karataev smiled in light triumph as he filed out of the room and past Renton. As he did, he whispered,

"Give the pipsqueak a good beating for me, American Russian. He deserves every bit of it."

Alekseev spat in his officer's face, a release of all the pent-up frustration and resentment he had harbored for four years. For so long he couldn't do anything for fear of retribution.

"Fuck you, Lieutenant Chertov."

The two soldiers paid no mind to Renton Thurston as they exited, treating him like a ghost. For them, the war was over, and their destinies were for them to choose. Chertov's face only grew redder as the seconds ticked by, realizing that he was truly alone in this fight, and no one would help him. It mattered little to him, however.

"FINE!" Chertov screeched. "TO HELL WITH YOU BOTH! I'LL KILL HIM MYSELF!"

"Go ahead and try!" Renton rejoined, charging him.

The two rivals clashed again, each staring into the eyes of the other. Renton's rifle stock had innumerable gashes by this point, splintering underneath his fingers. For Chertov, it was impossible to believe this boy still had strength and stamina enough to keep fighting. Was he a man or a demon?

They engaged in a battle of force, trying to push the other back while glaring the other down. As Chertov tried to bring down his rifle with his saber, Renton violently headbutted him, and sent him careening back in confusion. Renton raised his rifle again and fired, hoping to score a hit near his chest. Chertov only landed on his backside just as he fired his revolver again, the bullet scratching the left side of Renton's neck.

Chertov rolled and slid back up, before fleeing deeper into the halls. He had to find another way of besting his rival if this fight was to ever end. Renton only scoffed and ran after him, trying to get a bead on him as he did. Running and aiming at the same time was not the easiest task.

"Is running all you're good for, Chertov? Fight me like a man, motherfucker!"

The Russian officer paid him no heed and hung a sharp left, disappearing into the dark corridors, hoping to find some more loyal allies to take down the American. Clearly, Renton was determined, and Chertov's efforts alone would not be enough to subdue him. He was not just a boy. He was not even a man. He was unstoppable.

Meanwhile, Eureka was still standing by where Renton left her. Even from where she stood, she could hear the intense battle raging. Chertov's cries of frustration and pain were a clear proof that Renton was gaining the upper hand. And yet, why was it taking so long? Could it be that her beau wanted to torment the sociopath, just like he did the same to him and her all those years ago?

Either way, he couldn't go through with it. True, Chertov had much to answer for, but they needed him alive if they ever wish to find and stop Igor's plans.

With a deep breath, Eureka said,

"Forgive me, Renton. I can't obey your order."

And with that, she sprinted onward into the dark depths of the unknown.

All she had to go by were the sounds of clashing metal, gunshots, and the grunts and strains of two men. Even then, navigating through the hallways was akin to wandering about in a labyrinth. Even if there were signs on the walls, it would be an immense help. How did soldiers, or anyone for that matter, work in a place like this without being lost?

"Renton?" she called out. "Can you hear me?"

No answer. Only the continued cacophony of gunfire and a swiping sword. How did those two have the strength to fight for so long?

Suddenly, she saw two figures in the distance. They were two men in uniform, with their weapons over their shoulders. They were causally walking out of the facility.

Running up to them, it was clear they were both Red Army soldiers. She readied her weapon in preparation for a fight, but strangely they did not seem to be looking for one.

"Who might you be, little lady?" Alekseev asked in a friendly tone.

"That doesn't matter," Eureka said curtly. "Where are Renton and Chertov?" Eureka demanded.

Karataev simply gestured to the left.

"Go further down that way. Though, you might want to be careful. It's a bit dark."

Eureka nodded in thanks and ran past the two men. She had to go to her fiancé, fast. Why they did not take her captive, or even pay much attention to her, she would likely never know. She was not in any mood to care, either. All that mattered to her was finding Renton. She sensed him slipping away with each step she took into the darkness of the hallways. Only the rumbling of pipes kept her company as she looked about her for any signs of enemies. All the while, the sounds of battle seemed to drift closer and closer to her.

As she reached a corner, she felt a heavy weight shove into her side which sent her falling over sideways. As she looked over, she found to her dismay that it was not her fiancé, but Chertov. He had been badly injured, with a cut on his right ear, a wound to his right thigh and a bullet hole leaking fluids in his left foot. His uniform was frayed, and wrecked from extensive combat.

As Chertov came to, he found himself hanging over her, lying on her side as she stared up in surprise. The long lock of hair between her grey eyes was soaked in sweat, and Eureka breathed a gasp before she kicked him off.

Chertov's body slammed into the concrete corner, but he still stood on his two feet, grasping his saber tightly. As she regained her footing, and readied herself for combat, Chertov grinned maliciously.

"Well, I got your boyfriend off my back for a while. I suppose I can play with you in the meantime!"

He laughed and thrust forward with his saber, but Eureka swiftly blocked it with a parry of her sniper rifle. As his blade was forced out of the way, Eureka followed up with an immediate uppercut to Chertov's jaw, almost cracking her rifle butt. Chertov stumbled back, and tried to regain his stance. All the while, he jeered at her,

"So, tell me, darling: did you two finally tie the knot, as they say? How is he in bed, I wonder?!"

"We're engaged, for your information," she said nonchalantly, lining up her sights. "But the rest of the question is none of your business."

CRACK!

A shot rang through the hallways, and Chertov's shoulder erupted in blood and gunpowder. Eureka quickly cycled the bolt and shifted her target to Chertov's left knee and fired. A gout of red shot from his knee and Chertov's stance buckled. A new round came into the chamber, and Eureka switched targets yet again, this time to his face. Her childhood antagonist now was aggravated, and charged her at an Olympic runner's pace. She fired quickly, and only managed to graze his temple before she felt a sharp sting.

Chertov's saber sliced across Eureka's upper arm and cut open her sleeve. A thin, horizontal sliver revealed red, staining her skin with blood. Her first ever wound in combat. The officer grinned and quickly slid his foot under hers, tripping her up and sending her falling to the ground. The rifle clattered off to her side, but before Eureka could reach for her revolver, Chertov stomped his boot on her stomach, and pointed the tip of his saber at her throat.

Eureka wheezed and struggled to breathe as she looked up at her old tormentor and bully. He truly had not changed a bit since their childhood days. Still violent. Still arrogant. Still filled with hatred and venom.

"HAHA!" Chertov laughed in triumph. "I'll slice you up and dump you at Thurston'S feet, like—AAAGH!"

A gunshot came from down the hall, and another bullet penetrated his body, this time through his upper right arm. Chertov's attention was derailed and shifted to down the hall, where Renton came walking calmly. The young Russian girl could see he had suffered wounds as well, but he was still in fitter condition than Chertov.

Renton showed no emotion and had no words as he readied another round and fired, connecting again with Chertov's arm. Now Chertov lost his grip on the saber and dropped it in a cry of pain. The officer produced his revolver, but Renton switched from a walk to a run, faster than a horse's gallop, and barreled into his old nemesis. The ghost from his past that refused to rest.

"WHAT DID YOU DO TO EUREKA?!" he screeched, his voice cracking from anger.

Chertov shoved Renton back far enough to retake his saber and ready another attack.

"NOTHING BUT THE USUAL!" Chertov cackled, "GIVING HER PAIN LIKE I DO FOR YOUUUUUGGGHHH!"

Renton did not spare a moment before stabbing with his bayonet, this time in his left arm. He twisted the rifle and pinned Chertov to the wall before pulling the trigger. The rifle blew a hole through Chertov's arm that would have likely shattered it, had Renton not withdrawn the blade a few seconds earlier. He briefly looked down at Eureka to his left, still lying prone on concrete floor.

"Keep back, Eureka. I told you I would take care of it."

"It's not over yet, Thurston!" Chertov warned. "Don't underestimate me!"

Another horizontal slash of the saber was blocked, but Renton did more than just parry. He closed his fist and swung it towards his opponent's mouth, taking out three teeth in the process. However, he didn't stop there.

Now pinned against the wall, and with nowhere else to go, Chertov could do little but try to block his opponent's jabs, stabs, and punches. But Renton had far more strength, far more rage, than either he or Eureka could ever hope to imagine. Another punch left Chertov's face swollen, and one more stab from his bayonet left both of his arms useless. As Chertov groaned, and weakly raised saber for one final slash, Renton shot it in half, the blade clanking against the walls. A kick to Chertov's groin sent him sliding down the wall, and Renton checked his rifle chamber. One bullet. It was all he needed.

He leveled the rifle to his shoulder and aimed his sights straight at Chertov's mop-haired head. This would be the finishing blow. Realizing he was cornered, Chertov tried to bargain.

"I give!" he pleaded. "I give! Just stop now! I don't want to die…!"

Renton delivered a hard kick to Chertov's stomach, leaving him groaning, and unable to plead anymore.

"You're not getting a choice," Renton hissed, his voice now lower than a cello, and tapping into anger unknown. "You've made our lives utter misery. NOW ROT LIKE THE FILTH THAT YOU ARE!"

"That's right…" said the dark shadow behind him, "He must die right here and now!"

The forms of Charles, Ray, Jacques and Mikhail all circled around Renton, encouraging him to finally put a nail in the coffin of his most accursed foe. Finally complete the act of dark justice.

"Do it, Renton!" they chanted, eagerly. "Pull the trigger! Kill him! Finish the job!"

His finger curled around the trigger as Chertov whimpered, recognizing his defeat. At last. After so many years, one ghost from his past would finally be put to rest. And nothing better would do for a vindictive firebrand like Chertov.

 _Click_.

A cocking of a revolver's hammer, and the cold sensation of metal against Renton's temple stopped him from firing. His rage-filled jade eyes glanced over to his left, and he saw the most astounding sight.

Eureka, her upper left arm still bleeding, her breaths heavy and shallow, pointed her M1895 Nagant revolver directly at her fiancé. Her snowy grey eyes were alight with fire, and sadness hidden behind the flames.

"And what the fuck do you think you're doing?" he spat.

"That's enough, Renton," she said sternly. "Stand down. It's time to stop."

"Don't make me repeat myself. Leave this to me."

"I can't obey that order. Put your rifle down."

"GODDAMMIT, Eureka, DO AS I TELL YOU! GET THE HELL BACK, NOW!"

"NO!"

Eureka circled around and stood over Chertov's body, her foot resting on his wounded leg. Chertov winced in pain, but Eureka paid him no mind. There was something far more pressing to her right now.

"I cannot let you kill him, Renton. It won't do us any good."

"Bullshit," he retorted, his grip on his rifle shaking. "you want him out of the picture as much as I do. This fucker needs to die!"

"Yes, but not yet! Not until we learn what he knows about Igor!"

The shaking stopped, and Renton's pupils dilated. His whole body felt heavier than mercury, but he could not fall nor move back. All he could do was stand there. Eureka now had a glare that would frighten any hardened soldier into submission.

"Don't forget why we came here. We need to find out what Igor is planning, and why he wants you dead. And once we do, we'll dispose of him. He won't have to haunt us any longer."

"But…" His lips trembled, and the ocean of anger began to recede. In its place was something else, more somber and melancholy. "But I finally beat him! I finally ran him down!"

"I know all of that!" she rejoined, her voice faltering. "But still…you're about to do something terrible. This won't help anyone. Not me, not our friends, nor either of our countries. Not even Mikhail. This is just unadulterated hatred and rage. I can't let it consume you. You will be no better than Chertov right now!"

The muzzle of his rifle lowered slightly, and his finger uncurled from its wrap around the trigger.

"Enough!" Renton growled through his teeth, glaring at his beloved. "Stand aside or I'll make you."

"You won't. I know you won't."

He paused, and the muzzle dropped another inch.

"If you're going to shoot me, then do it," Renton quietly said. "But what will you do when I'm gone? How will you ever live with yourself?"

"I can tell you that I have no intention of carrying on when this is over. I can't see myself in a world that doesn't have you in it. So, when you're gone…that is when I go, too."

Renton felt something choking him, but it was not anger. The thought of her giving up her own life because of his rage was simply too steep a price. Nothing, not even settling the score with his old nemesis and tormentor was worth losing her.

He quickly turned the muzzle towards the ceiling and fired, nearly deafening everyone in the corridor. The smoke from the gunshot was a curtain behind which all the anger was shaken off, only to be replaced by regret.

"I can't let you do that," he said quietly. "I can't lose you."

Eureka lowered her revolver, and could see that finally, after so much effort, the darkness had receded. He emerged, barely standing, but still there to live with her. His eyes were now leaden with tears as he looked to her, lowering his rifle for the last time.

"I'm so sorry, Eureka. Please forgive me. I never meant to…hurt you again…"

Eureka holstered her revolver, and gently embraced him.

"I know, darling. I know…"

As her foot came off Chertov's leg, he groaned, and he leered at the young couple contemptuously.

"You people make me sick…"

They paid him no mind, and only stood silently for a few moments as every ounce of darkness and hatred ebbed away and flowed out into the ether. This was not who he was. It could never be. To do this was to lose a piece of himself. And lose her in the process.

* * *

 **A/N:** **I hope everyone enjoyed that duel, and maybe surprised you a few times as well. Rest assured that Chertov will have one last appearance where his fate is decided, but he's definitely a defeated man after this. The fight is not over, however, because we're not leaving the Warsaw laboratory quite yet. There are still plenty of dark and terrifying secrets to be found here, and the next chapter is all concerned with Holland and Talho's tribulations in here. It's going to be a gruesome fight, but one I know you will all enjoy.**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Everyone loved the final duel between Renton and Chertov, which is great. I had a feeling it may have dragged on too long, but that's never been a problem before. However, everyone's troubles in the laboratory are not over yet, and there are more gruesome surprises to be found here, along with a cameo of a couple E7 characters if you squint hard enough. Hope everyone enjoys this next chapter, as it is told entirely from Holland and Talho's perspective, as they have a few mishaps of their own.**

* * *

 **Chapter Sixteen**

 **June 27** **th** **, 1945**

 **Somewhere outside of Warsaw, Poland**

As much as Holland had reservations, he had to keep his priorities straight. Their objective was to find Dewey, or any evidence that could lead them to him. Chertov was a minor hindrance, and it was not one he could afford to worry over. For the moment, he had to trust his little sister in keeping Renton grounded and stable. Eureka was the only hope for him now, as always.

The look in his old friend and comrade's eyes betrayed every ounce of hatred and anger that flooded his being. He couldn't blame Renton for it; even Holland would be hard pressed not to lose all control upon learning of his rival surviving and receiving no punishment. He easily sympathized, as the revelation of his brother's involvement in Renton's attempted assassination hit him like a bomb.

What on earth was Dewey planning? What was he hiding here? And why did the hallways reek of blood, medical fluids and human excrement?

A light buzzed as it flickered each time one soldier struggled to open a wrought iron door. It was a struggle, and each flicker of the light only set everyone in the squad on edge. Holland had already lost two men in this venture, and he was not prepared to lose anymore.

"What the hell is…ngh…Ivan keeping in this place?" one soldier, Private Foster, asked rhetorically as he pulled open the lock.

"It's Dewey," Holland corrected as he scanned the intersecting corridors.

"Whatever. Lieutenant, do we even known if this Dewey guy is still here? He could have bolted after what happened yesterday."

"Doesn't matter. Even if he's not here, we should still find intel about where he went."

"He may still be here, sir," another younger militiaman cut in.

He had set down a radio set, and was listening through headphones. The partisan-turned-militia lieutenant came beside the radio operator to inquire further.

"How do you figure that?"

"Take a listen."

The operator handed Holland the headphones, and he could hear very clearly the condescending voice of his older brother barking orders.

" _Lieutenant Chertov, report on your status. Over."_

A bout of silence and static before the next message.

" _Lieutenant Chertov, reply at once. This is Colonel Novikov. Rendezvous at Sector B of the facility for new orders. Do you read? Over."_

Holland scoffed at the voice.

"If he's here, we have to find him. We should try to find the quickest route to this…sector B."

Foster pulled open the door with a loud creak, and ushered everyone inside. Holland and Talho covered the rest of the squad and Commissar Pozharsky as they all filed in. From his bag slung across his shoulder Pozharsky reached for a 16-millimeter camera, and checked the lens. Talho looked at the political officer quizzically.

"What's the camera for?" Pozharsky sweated at the question.

"For…documentation. The Interior Ministry wants any information it can get. It'll help us track down the Colonel." Holland quietly sneered as the commissar slipped in through the door.

"Yeah, I bet."

Talho moved to go on, but Holland stopped her.

"Listen, Talho," he whispered to her, low enough for no one else to hear, "there's something off about this guy. Watch him carefully, make sure he doesn't try anything funny."

"Yes, sir."

On the other side of the door, the entire squad found they had stumbled into what appeared to be an engine room. Dusty circuit boxes were bolted to the walls and large coiled wires ran along like vines into adjoining rooms. The ceiling was noticeably higher, and the gentle beams of light streaming through the windows dissipated any claustrophobia the group had upon entering.

In the middle of the room was a large catwalk, where a pylon stood in the middle, along with what appeared to be the main circuit board, complete with breakers. The militiamen and the commissar were struck with awe and wonder at the sight, mixed with dread.

"What kind of laboratory is this?" Foster asked to the wind.

"It's more like a factory than anything," Sergeant Weaver remarked, looking out the windows.

"But for what? Factories make things, don't they?"

"Yeah…they do…"

The squad spread out and the radio operator laid his set down in the middle. As Pozharsky panned the camera around, he found a small gangway leading down deeper into darkness. He turned to Talho, who was busy examining the wires spiraling around the walls like a pack of snakes.

"You're…Sergeant Yukieva, right?"

Talho looked at the older commissar, and was greeted by her reflection in the camera lens.

"Go down there, and see if you can find a power switch."

"Why?"

"Because we need more light."

The young sergeant was apprehensive, and feared Pozharsky was planning something else, but she had little other choice than to obey. Leveling her M1 Garand rifle, she cautiously stepped down the gangway into the subterranean level. Pozharsky followed with the camera, and made some small talk to lighten the mood.

"I noticed you and the Lieutenant talk a lot. You two seem very close."

"We've been through a lot together, yes."

"How did you come to know him?"

Talho now wondered just why Pozharsky was asking such a personal question. Was he trying to dig dirt on her superior and lover? Holland always told her horror stories about the secret police, and how they used all information to blackmail, intimidate and eliminate opponents and critics. She feared what this man, this new "observer" would do if she told too much.

"Let's just save that for when we're out of here."

"Of course. Sorry."

At the bottom of the gangway, the duo came upon what looked to be a power generator. Talho was struck with awe, wondering just how big this facility was and how deep it could go. Clearly this was more than just a simple research facility or a laboratory. There was something else being kept here. The possibility filled her with trepidation as she looked about her. Pozharsky was drawn to a small red light on the side of a large metallic box with a crank at the bottom. He smiled in triumph.

"Here it is. Yukieva, come turn on this generator."

"I don't think—"

"Don't think, just do it!"

Talho was visibly miffed at the commissar's gruffness, but saw no harm in at least humoring him. She set down her rifle and approached the box, trying to discern how to turn on the machine. A small button below the red light switched the generator into the on position, and turned the red light to green. Her hands reached for the metallic crank, and tried to turn it. The crank had evidently been rusted from disuse, as it made a terrible screech when it inched clockwise.

Pozharsky blithely filmed the whole procedure, not even asking the young sergeant if she needed help. If he really was just an "observer" as he claimed, he stuck to his word. It took every ounce of strength she could muster before the crank made a full rotation. The generator whirred but the lights did not come on. Talho had to strain and make one more rotation before the mechanism finally kicked into gear. The lights came on, and the generator now hummed at full power. The commissar smiled and laughed.

"There we go! Good work, Yukieva!"

"Hey, Yukieva, Red!" Foster called from the top of the gangway. "Come over here! Look at what we found!"

The duo ran up the gangway and followed Foster back to an open door on the left. Pozharsky switched out a roll of film while Talho joined the others of her squad in the room. She almost dropped her weapon in shock, her hazel eyes quivering in disbelief at what sight greeted her.

Mounted on the right wall like sick trophies were three young girls, easily in their teens, wearing hospital gowns. They were held by their wrists and ankles with leather bonds, and intravenous tubes spiraled into each of their right arms, through which flowed a strange red liquid. On their hands were what looked to be gauntlets, the fingers of which were shaped more like claws, tipped with menacing knives. Their bodies twitched and Talho could hear a faint moan as the fluids flowed into their forms. Three dead, empty stares filled the entire squad, and even Commissar Pozharsky, with a chill in their bones.

"What…the actual fuck?" Foster breathed, keeping his distance from the girls.

"Jesus Christ," Weaver said in horror, readying his Thompson submachine gun.

A light bulb flickered with a loud buzz, which only kept everyone on edge. Pozharsky kept the camera going and stood quietly in the corner, not wanting to be caught up in whatever happened next. A younger militiaman with red unruly hair stepped forward to the wall, hesitantly approaching the girl strapped in the center. Her long black hair was tied in a bun behind her head, and her hollow cobalt eyes jumped all around. He was rapt with fearful curiosity, and inched the muzzle of his rifle to nudge her. Weaver ordered him to back away.

"Sasha, stop! Don't touch her!"

His rifle's muzzle was less than a hair's width away from the center girl's wrist when she went into a violent spasm. Sasha staggered back and almost tripped over a box of medical syringes as the three girls curled their hands and strained their bodies forward.

Holland readied his Colt .45 M1911 pistol and pointed it at the center of mass of one girl, with short blonde hair and empty brown eyes. He could not begin to imagine what kind of lives these girls led before being subjected to this awful ordeal. They could easily be his younger sister, and he saw a little of her in them.

The black-haired girl broke her leather restraints, and stumbled forward off the wall. A feminine moan escaped her lips as she reached for Sasha, who craned backward in fear.

"Rrrrgghhh…"

"Hey," Holland called, "can you hear me?"

The blonde girl soon broke free of her bonds and started to move towards Holland, not minding the intravenous tube tightening behind her. Her dead eyes and her unintelligible moaning seemed to indicate she was not fully in control. Something in that fluid was driving them, fueling them.

"Töte sie…" the center girl murmured quietly as it inched towards Foster. (A/N: Kill them…)

"The hell is she saying?" Foster asked, as the black-haired girl stretched her gauntlet towards him.

"TÖTE SIE!"

The center girl swiped her gauntlets across Foster's face, and left three diagonal red cuts on his cheek. As Foster groaned in pain, this sent the other girls into a frenzy. Foster staggered back against the wall and knocked over several coils of copper wire. The girl lunged forward and curled the digits of her gauntlet into a single blade, like the tip of a spear and thrust at Foster.

Foster swung his rifle across, knocking the girl's gauntlet out of the way. The girl shrieked like an enraged animal and then turned to attack Sasha. The gauntlets found a target at the young militiaman's throat, and left four horizontal gashes across it. Sasha gurgled and crumbled to the ground as the room descended into chaos. In the meantime, Pozharsky only stood in the corner, filming the entire attack.

Holland fought off the blonde girl who clawed at his uniform with a kick to her shin, and followed up with two shots to her chest. Her screech died and turned into a whimper as she fell to the floor, partially suspended by the now stretched intravenous tube. The center girl tried to go for Weaver, but he was ready, and not about to be slashed to bits by some freakish experiment. He squeezed the trigger of his Thompson and peppered the abdomen of the girl, who cried like a wounded animal.

The room was now filled with the stench of smoke, gunpowder and blood as the entire squad opened fire and shot the last girl as she broke free of her restraints and lashed out straight ahead. However, they were not done just yet. She slowly rose from the cold floor as if she was possessed. Her feet stood first, then her whole body bent backwards and hunched over. Without skipping a beat, she charged towards a prepared Talho. Like a player with a baseball bat, she quickly swung her rifle butt towards the girl's head.

A swift, powerful blow like that should have killed her, but the girl's adrenaline refused to cease as she chomped on the stock of the rifle like a rabid dog.

Pozharsky, who was nearly one foot away from the struggling sergeant, didn't budge an inch to assist her. Instead, the cameraman only continued with his filming. He was too scared, too mesmerized, and too lost in awe to do anything else.

"This doctor…he must be amazing…" he whispered, soft enough for no one to hear.

After much struggle, Talho finally pushed the girl back and circled around. She stabbed the girl in the back and shot twice. Blood spattered on the floor and the girl moaned in pain as she died. The violent and disturbing scene ended as quickly as it began, and all that was left was heavy breathing and the low gurgle of Sasha.

Weaver rushed to the young militiaman's side, as Talho looked up, only to be greeted with the camera lens. She was now thoroughly agitated, and swatted it out of her face.

"Shut that fucking thing off, asshole!"

Holland glared at Pozharsky, and then shifted his glance down to Weaver and Sasha. The blank, hanging stare of the young redhead said it all.

"He's dead, sir," Weaver confirmed.

Holland bit his lip and pounded his fist on the wall. Another casualty taken. This was not why he brought a squad over across the seas. They had to find the Colonel and get out of here.

"We'll bury him later. Once we're finished here."

Foster breathed heavily and touched his cheek. It stung like a wasp's venom, and he winced.

"See, this kind of shit is why I didn't want to come in the first place…"

Two more militiamen picked up the recruit's lifeless body and carried it out, with the rest of the squad following suit. As Talho exited, she glared long and hard at Pozharsky, knowing he was responsible. If he didn't order to turn on the generator, it was likely those girls' medication would not have sent them into a frenzy.

She said not a word, but the glare stayed affixed on her face as she left the room.

Back in the engine room, the remainder of the squad tried to discern what to do next. The shock of the attack left many numb, and for a long time, no one could speak. Pozharsky could not even muster words, perhaps out of an inkling of guilt for what had transpired. Holland stayed close to the radio operator, checking again and again for any signal from the others in their party.

"340, 271," the operator hailed on the set, "come in. Report on your status, over."

Only static and garbled voices came through.

"Try home base," Holland suggested. "Vladimir and Father might have something for us."

"Yes, sir."

After a short retuning of the radio, the operator tried again.

"General Novikov, Morita, do you read? We need a situation report. Have you heard anything from Nadia or Renton? Come in, General. Over."

" _Lieutenant Chertov, what is your location? I am at Sector B of the facility awaiting your update. Do you read? Over."_ The operator sighed at hearing Dewey's voice.

"Someone's jamming us, I think. We can't get a clear signal." Holland shook his head in frustration.

"We need to find out what the hell's going on here, and find this Sector B."

He stood up and called over Weaver and Talho. They took a knee next to the radio, but before Talho could tell him the truth behind the attack, Holland gave them their orders.

"Listen, we can't stay here forever. See if you can find someone in this damn place who can lead us to Dewey. Don't take too many with you; I don't want to lose any more men."

"I'll take Foster, sir," Weaver suggested. "Between him and us, I think we can handle finding a prisoner."

"Alright, then. Be careful."

Weaver left to talk to Foster, but Talho gently grasped at Holland's shoulder.

"There's something off about the commissar. He ordered me to turn on the generator downstairs, and I think that may have had something to do with those girls. Something else is going on, Holland. The commissar is not telling us everything."

Holland looked over and saw Pozharsky checking his camera in the corner. He had a suspicion about this new addition since he joined them in Warsaw, but there was not much they could do. He assumed this new "minder" and observer for the NKVD was just a formality.

"I agree, there's more to this than what the commissar is letting on. But what you do propose we do?"

"If it were up to me, sir," she said, her hazel eyes harder than steel, "we'd ditch him, find the colonel, and get out."

"That's not exactly an option. If he does something shady, then we will decide what to do. Until then, just keep an eye on him."

Talho's brow furrowed in indignation. Was that all her beau and commanding officer could say? Surely, he wanted this bureaucrat gone and out of their hair too!

"Holland, don't you see there's something out of place here? I can feel it in my bones; this may all be one big—"

Holland gently curled one hand behind her neck, and pulled her into a light kiss. It was not an opportune time for romance, but his touch was enough to slow her words and cool her head. He broke apart as quickly as he kissed her and whispered,

"Calm down a second, Talho. I know our situation is not exactly ideal, but what else can we do? I promise if he does something, I will take care of it personally. For now, just do what I say."

She blushed, her eyes softening as she stared into his crystal blue ones. Sighing, she stood up and straightened her ebony black hair, knowing her superior was right.

"…understood, Lieutenant Novikov."

"As you were, sergeant."

Sergeant Weaver and Private Foster met Talho besides the metal staircase encircling the pylon, and went over the plan. They decided the best route to go was down the opposite way, and agreed not to stray too far from the engine room lest they get separated. As Foster struggled with the knob on the iron door, the commissar came to join them with a new roll of film ready to go. Talho eyed him with suspicion as Holland ordered them all,

"Try not to die out there, you lot."

"Worry about yourself, Lieutenant," Foster quipped, finally breaking open the door.

Foster closed the door and proceeded to lead the detachment down the hallway. There were many doors on either side, some open, some locked, and others ajar just enough for them to see inside. Most of the rooms were empty, or rather, they were empty of any living people. They all looked similar to rooms for hospital patients, complete with beds and containers for IV fluids. But they were dirty, the walls smeared with grime, blood, and handprints, and there was a putrid smell of human waste in the air the further along they went.

Pozharsky kept to the rear, filming the entire mission, which now thoroughly annoyed Talho. Every time she glanced over to make sure no one was behind them, she shot an angry scowl at the lens, and even on occasion gave an obscene gesture.

"So, Red," Foster asked, "what's that camera for? Making a movie for your commie friends back in Moscow?"

"Never you mind about that, Private Foster," the commissar replied nonchalantly. "It's not something you need to worry about."

"Sure, whatever…"

Suddenly they all heard light breathing coming from behind a door on their left. It was slightly open, and Talho looked through the crack. It was yet another patient room, with a few overturned beds and crates of medical equipment scattered throughout. In the center of the room was a single light bulb which flickered with a loud buzz, hovering over an upside-down bed. Talho thought she could see a silhouette hiding underneath.

Rather slender in frame, shaking slightly with fear, the figure tried to keep under the shadows and out of any unwanted sight. A small feminine whimper betrayed the gender of the figure.

"There's someone in there," Talho whispered.

"Who?" Foster asked impatiently.  
"I can't see…it looks like a woman…"

"Oh, for fuck's sake…!"

Foster flung open the door which made the woman recoil in fear. As he stomped in, the muzzle of his rifle was pointed directly at the silhouette.

"You, underneath the bed! Out! Now!"

The silhouette did not have time to speak as Foster dragged her out by the arm before roughly pulling her up. She was indeed a woman, roughly in her early 20s, with short red hair beneath a Red Army service cap. Her whole uniform indicated she was with the army, but her armband, white with a straight red cross in the center, indicated she was a medical orderly.

The nurse's blue eyes darted around, her breathing heavy.

"Wh-what? Your uniforms…you're not Russians, are you?"

Irritated, Foster gave the girl a hard nudge, which earned a wince of pain.

"What kind of dumbass question is that? Of course not, you stupid bitch! Now who the hell are you?"

"M-my name is Mischa. What are you all doing here?"

Talho shot Foster a warning look before she replied.

"We are looking for Colonel Dewey Novikov. We heard that he was in this facility, harboring a doctor."

"Who told you? How did you even get here?"

"That's not important right now," Pozharsky pressed, lowering his camera. "What's important is you tell us where they are."

Mischa looked behind her and eyed a door with dread in her eyes. Her whole body was shaking as she looked to Talho.

"Look, I can tell clearly you're not with the Red Army. I'll tell you everything, but first we need to go. They will be coming for us."

"Who?" Weaver asked. "Who's coming?"

"There are soldiers everywhere, looking for intruders. If you found me, then so will they. Please, we have to go!"

Foster, growing more incensed, immediately grabbed Mischa by the collar, glaring at her with disdain.

"Listen here, lousy commie bitch! We ain't going anywhere unless you tell us what we need to know! Where is the fucking Colonel!?"

"And the doctor," Pozharsky added. "Where is he? It is vitally important that—" Foster pushed the commissar aside and growled angrily.  
"Look, Red, I don't give a flying shit why you're here, but just let us do our job! Got it?!"

"Shut the hell up, both of you!" Talho ordered harshly towards the two men. "At this rate, we won't get anything done with you idiots making a ruckus. You need to calm your shit, Private Foster. That's an order."

Foster pouted like an immature child and spit on the floor in frustration. The commissar said nothing, and only kept rolling the film. With the tension fading for now, Talho turned to Mischa again, trying to console the scared woman.

"Mischa, was it? We need to know where the Colonel and the doctor are, now. It's urgent."

"The doctor…" Mischa struggled, her voice trembling with fear, "…he's probably in the main experimental hall. The Colonel…I don't know. I haven't seen him since early this morning. He gave orders to—"

BOOM! CRASH!

The door behind Mischa blew open and left everyone with a ringing in their ears. Smoke emanated from the doorway as in came a squad of security guards, armed with submachine guns and semiautomatic rifles. The trio of militiamen and the commissar ducked behind the overturned bed while Mischa fell to the ground in a fright, holding her ears. She trembled and watched as the fight played out.

The security guard squad had a slight numerical advantage, and tried to surround and trap the small group. Foster, who had been itching for some combat this whole time, finally found his chance and stood up.

"Finally!" he shouted as he fired off two shots from his Garand. "A real gunfight!"

His two shots connected with the center mass of one guard who fell back and slid against the wall. Weaver peeked out around the corner of bed and shot a quick burst of his Thompson, suppressing two more. However, Foster was not content with simple defense, and leapt over the bed, charging another guard who came through the door.

"Eat this, you commie scumbag!"

Foster's bayonet charge claimed another victim as the guard's stomach was pierced, forcing him to his knees with a shriek of pain. He kicked the body off and fired off two more rounds into the doorway, seeing more security guards rushing in.

Weaver killed one more guard, but failed to suppress the other who came up behind Foster with an SVT-40 rifle at the ready.

"FOSTER, BEHIND YOU!"

The young, arrogant private looked and was greeted with a sharp blow to his head, courtesy of the guard's rifle butt. That knocked Foster off his feet and he careened backward against the bed. The guard wasted no time with yet another blow to his face, and brought his rifle up to his cheek for the kill. Talho intervened, and shot at the guard's arm, but she was just a second too late.

One loud shot rang and a loud groan of pain followed from Foster, which echoed through the whole room.

Not wanting to risk more lives, Weaver ordered the rest of the detachment out of the room and back down the hall from whence they came. Pozharsky and Mischa were all too happy to oblige and were the first to exit. Talho tossed a grenade just as more guards came through the door and then sprinted out with Weaver in tow. They slammed the door shut just in time for the grenade to explode, killing their pursuers.

A quick sprint down the hall and a hard slam and a lock of the wrought-iron door ended the ordeal, leaving them only panting heavily and wondering what more terrifying sights lay in store. This was not just a laboratory; it was a madhouse. Holland rushed over from the radio set and could easily see something was amiss among the survivors.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded. "Did you find someone who can help us?"

The nurse Mischa stepped forward. Her entire body was shaking, clearly traumatized from more than the simple firefight that had just transpired.

"Wh-why are you here?"

"We're looking for Colonel Novikov. Do you know where he is?"

"I-I don't know, mister…?"

"Just call me Holland."

"Holland, if you're looking for the Colonel, I don't think you will find him." Holland blinked, and he felt a sudden chill blast through his body.

"Why do you say that?"

"The last time I saw the Colonel, it was this morning. He was instructing us all to pack up everything and leave. There were intruders coming." Holland smiled ruefully and scoffed.

"Yeah. We're them. So, he knew we were coming, then?"

"That can't be, Lieutenant!" the radio operator interjected. "Even if he did know, it doesn't explain the radio signal we're still getting. He _has_ to be here!"

"Listen, Mischa," Talho asked, trying her best to console the nurse, "the radio message keeps saying Colonel Novikov is in Sector B of the facility. Do you know where that is?"

Mischa looked around, and every militiaman's eye was on her. Even the commissar had put away his camera to listen to her testimony. He even had a notepad ready to record everything.

"…I do. But I don't think you would like what you find there."

"What's there?" Weaver asked, checking his Thompson. "more human experiments?"

Mischa whipped her head around at the sergeant with sideburns.

"H-how do you know about that?"

"We found a room with some girls. They looked like they had been injected with something. They killed one of our boys."

"…the doctor's work," she said forebodingly. "It's something he's been doing ever since he came here."

"Yeah, but why?"

"The Colonel gave him free reign in exchange for cooperation. Before we captured him in Berlin he was working on some…weapon."

Pozharsky was now thoroughly interested, and leaned in closer, scribbling on his notepad.

"What kind of weapon? Do you know anything about it?"

Holland shot him a disapproving look.

"That can wait, commissar. We need to find Dewey, first."

Three loud bangs on the entry door cancelled any further questioning the group may have had. Holland turned his eyes to the door, and ordered all to take cover, fearing an impending attack. Strangely, they heard familiar shouting. Feminine voices, screaming to run. Holland recognized them.

"In here, Roza," said one. "We have to hide in here!"

"Get that door open!" urged another. "We don't know when they'll find us!"

"Agent 340?" Talho said with surprise. "Is that you?"

"Sergeant Yukieva?" Nadia's voice answered. "Let us in, quick! We're being chased!"

Holland did not need to hear anymore, and immediately opened the entry door. In tumbled Nadia and Roza, their uniforms beat up and their faces smeared with dirt and blood. Nadia's blonde hair was more unruly than usual, and almost blackened with dust and soot. Roza kept a look behind her as the door was shut and locked. Holland tended to Nadia while Roza caught her breath.

"Where the hell have you two been?!" Holland asked hurriedly. "We've been calling you forever!"

"I know," Nadia said, her legs wobbling like jelly. "I heard the messages. We can't stay here; security will be coming for us."

"Wait, you heard all of them?"

"I'll explain later. Listen. There is something very important I need to tell you. It's about the colonel. He's not—"

There was a loud bang on the right door, and that was their cue to pack up and leave. The time for explanations and answers would have to be later. The radio operator quickly packed his set into his rucksack, and everyone looked around for an escape route.

"Over here!" Weaver cried. "There's a hole that leads down!"

"Oh, come on!" a militiaman protested. "How fucking deep does this place go?"

"No time to be picky, corporal," Talho rejoined, gathering her rifle and ammunition. "Let's just go!"

No sooner had she said that when the right door exploded into several shards. A security guard fired his PPSh-41 into the engine room, and sent Mischa scurrying for cover. She found it with Roza, who fired her TT-33 pistol in the side door direction. It managed to wound the guard and buy enough time for Mischa to retreat to the trap door, and climb down the ladder.

All the militia slowly retreated, firing and covering each other as they went. Pozharsky went down the trap door next, filming the firefight as he did. At this moment, another squad of guards came up the gangway from the generator, only to be greeted by a hailstorm of bullets from Weaver. Nadia reached for a grenade and tossed it down the gangway, which exploded upon impact. That sent the lights flickering and rocked the room slightly. But as a light machine gunner came up, Nadia fired her C96 to cover the last militiaman as they went into the trap door.

Thankfully the trap door closed from the inside, so Nadia could barricade themselves as she slipped in. As she came down the ladder, the illumination faded to an ember's glow. The air tasted of metal and concrete as they came upon a metal platform. Behind them a stairway led further down, but they all needed a moment to catch their breath.

The radio operator panted heavily and set his rucksack down. As it fell over with a thud, a softened garbled voice came through. Holland looked over, thinking the radio was still switched on. However, what he saw left him confused, angry, and lost all at the same time.

A small box with silver paint peeked from underneath the flap of the rucksack. As he pulled it back, the box had a viewing window, which showed a tape playing. Holland gently adjusted one knob on the side of the box, which increased the volume. And a familiar voice played on the tape.

" _Lieutenant Chertov, reply at once. This is Colonel Novikov. Rendezvous at Sector B of the facility for new orders. Do you read? Over."_

His stained teeth ground together, and his calloused hands curled into hard fists. This was not a part of the radio kit. When they all checked before boarding the ship for Vladivostok, he knew there was no silver box. This was a foreign addition. Someone planted it. As Pozharsky came by after making rounds, Holland instantly knew who was behind this.

"I don't fucking believe this…"

Pozharsky looked at the young lieutenant, and upon seeing the silver box, a cold sweat soaked his collar and coated his forehead. Holland stood up and started to walk over, looking ready to commit a murder. His blue eyes were alight with a rage, a rage at being deceived. Pozharsky tried to placate, as Holland came closer.

"Holland…comrade…please let me explain."

Holland would have none of it, and delivered a sharp hook across the commissar's face. It was followed by a hard jab to the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Pozharsky fell backward and landed on his backside as Holland produced his M1911, and earned the attention of Talho and Nadia.

"Holland, what's going on?"

"Why don't you ask Commissar Pozharsky?" he said, unlocking the pistol's safety.

Nadia and Talho both looked down at the commissar, his cheek swollen and discolored.

"What is it, Commissar?" Talho asked with suspicion.

"Tell them," Holland demanded, "before I blow your damn brains out."

"Comrades," Pozharsky started, "you don't understand."

"Understand what?! TELL THEM NOW!"

The commissar looked around, and saw accusing eyes, eyes that demanded answers. Even Mischa, who was the very picture of fear not minutes before, now had suspicion written all over her face. There was no point in hiding it anymore. He sighed and looked down at his scuffed boots.

"…Colonel Novikov is not here."

A moment of silence passed, and all were lost in surprise and disbelief. It wasn't possible. The voice on the radio was clearly Dewey's. He _had_ to be here! Talho raised an eyebrow and looked to Holland for answers.

"I don't get it. That makes no sense!" Holland smiled ruefully and handed her the silver box.

"That thing is a radio jammer. I couldn't understand why Nadia wasn't answering our calls. _This_ is why!" He looked back at Pozharsky with contempt. "Our 'observer' here was blocking us. Cutting us off from everyone, even Volodya and Father!"

The radio operator gasped in shock and his brow furrowed in anger.

"And I was _carrying_ the goddamn thing…!"

He tossed his pack at the commissar in disgust, who blocked it from hitting his face. Talho's mouth dropped faster than a lead weight as she looked around in disbelief.

"He could use it to transmit that phony message," Holland continued. "From his pack, to the radio…"

"…and lead us here?" Talho reasoned. "So then…Dewey is…"

"Dewey is not here, Sergeant!" Nadia finally stated, her face contorted with anger. "He never was, and Roza and I could have told you that easily! We looked everywhere in this damn place! He's long gone."

Talho tossed the box aside and fell into a whirlpool of emotions, clashing and mixing together. Anger. Disbelief. Disquiet. Regret. Fear. But all that was left was a suspicion confirmed. There was more to the commissar than he let on. He lied! He lied to them all!

"YOU FUCKING SON OF A BITCH!" she screamed, reaching for his collar. "I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING OFF ABOUT YOU THE MINUTE WE MET!"

One punch landed on his face, then another, and her fist then bludgeoned his nose. When his collar slipped through her fingers, her boot delivered a firm kick to his torso, and left Pozharsky writhing on the ground, coughing. Talho was about to stomp on his head, but Nadia stopped her from losing total control.

"Sergeant, wait! Don't kill him yet! First, we need to know why."

Talho was not in any mood to listen, but she held her peace anyway, scowling hard at Pozharsky. Nothing this man could say could possibly justify deceiving them all, and leading them into a death trap. They had already lost four men thanks to his scheming and trickery! That alone was enough to kill him and leave this madhouse.

"We're not going anywhere, comrades…" Pozharsky coughed, regaining his breath.

Holland was likewise not interested in hearing the commissar's reasons, and turned to Mischa.

"You, what's your name again?"

"M-Mischa, Holland," she stuttered.

"Do you know the best way out of here, Mischa?"

"Yes, uh—"

"Good. We'll follow you."

"Comrades," Pozharsky eked out, "you don't understand. We can't leave yet. That's an order."

Everyone on the platform scoffed at those words, and now even Mischa was fully incensed. This façade had gone on long enough!

"An order?!" Roza and Mischa spluttered with rage. "Where the hell do you get off?!"

Pozharsky reached into his pocket for something, trying again to placate. Suddenly, an infuriated Holland grabbed the commissar by the collar and lifted him up, pinning him against the metal ladder.

"Listen to me, you communist dog," he growled, "Your little wild goose chase cost me almost half of my squad! Whatever game it is you're playing, I'm not interested! Now, you better give me a good reason to do anything you say before I break your fucking jaw, Pozharsky!"

"I have full authority over this mission should things go south," Pozharsky said calmly, wiping his nose of blood.

"Bullshit. You said you were an observer!"

"No, it's true!"

Holland raised a fist, but Pozharsky now produced a folded paper from his pocket. The militia officer swiped it, and started to read through it.

"Read that document. I'm a full captain, your superior officer. The NKVD told me to take control should something like this happen. Now, I have a list of names of every member of this squad's family and loved ones! If something happens to me…"

Holland looked up, and the anger had completely disappeared. All that was left was concern. Pallor was on the face of every one standing on that metal platform.

"…you know what will happen to them."

The young ex-partisan was now paler than a bedsheet, and his eyes betrayed hopelessness and despair. In any other circumstance, he would gladly shoot this rat and lead them out. But world forces, forces bigger and more powerful than any of them, conspired against them. He looked to Talho, the one reason he was still standing here today, and his eyes quivered.

"He's right."

He handed the paper to her, who looked through it with aghast, disbelieving eyes. Nadia, Roza, and the others of the squad gathered around the young sergeant as Holland leaned against the rusted railings of the platform. He looked down, where a single path with a small spur of track led into darkness. Heaving a heavy sigh, Holland wondered just what he could do now. And more importantly, why this political officer would deceive them, threaten their families, and lead them into this death hole. Clearly, it was not to find Dewey.

"Commissar," he breathed, "answer me one thing. Why didn't you just tell us?"

He looked over, and saw that Pozharsky had recovered his camera, and was about to insert a new roll of film.

"Why the fake messages? Why lead us on like that?"

"This is a top-secret mission. The Interior Ministry was afraid of a leak." Holland ground his teeth again.

"So, you let us all come here unprepared…?!"

"NO! Of course not! I just…didn't know what we were going to find here."

"Why are we here, then, Captain?" Talho asked curtly.

"I thought Agent 340 told you. The colonel captured a doctor in Berlin, and never handed him over to us. Franz Deckard is his name. Our intelligence suggested he was here."

"The same man that brainwashed those girls that killed Sasha?"

"We never knew exactly what the doctor was working on."

"He's NOT a doctor!" Holland spluttered angrily.

Holland looked off to Mischa, who now sat in the corner, grasping at the railings. What manner of horrors did she have to see while working here? Just what did Dewey want with this…?

"He's a madman."  
"Whether he is or not doesn't matter. My orders are to capture Deckard, if possible. If not, kill him."

"Capture?!" Holland repeated incredulously. "What does the Soviet Union want with a fascist madman like him?!"

"LISTEN TO ME, NOVIKOV! This is not your business, nor anyone else's. Just do your job, and I will guarantee you and your men's safety."

Nadia now stepped forward, skeptical of the commissar's claims.

"How do we know you're not lying? Is there even film in your camera?!"

"Yes, the film is real. I need a record of everything in case we can't take him alive."

Nadia sighed, and recognized there was nothing else they could do. It was either follow orders or lose their lives…and their families. It was not a risk anyone was willing to take. The commissar was through with questions, and gave new instructions to all.

"Now, comrades, gather your weapons and ammo. We're going to find the doctor, and you, Mischa, you're taking us to him. Which way?"

»»»»»

The facility was like a maze, a maze that went on forever. Somehow, through the underground tracks that seemed more like a mine shaft than part of a laboratory, through more patient rooms and past machinery for purposes no one could (or wanted) to decipher, they survived. The small skeleton squad, a lying commissar, two ex-secret policemen and a scared, traumatized nurse made it through to the surface.

Mischa led them along cautiously down the white tiled halls towards what she called the "experimental hall," where the doctor was last seen. The lighting was again shoddy, and an ominous trail of blood seemed to form their path, left evidently from a dragged body. To make matters worse, a wretched, fetid smell permeated the already foul halls. The further they traveled, the more putrid and powerful the smell grew. It was a disgusting mix of rotting flesh, death, and human feces, which only begged questions of just what kind of experiments went on here.

"Shit, man," Weaver coughed, covering his mouth with his elbow, "what the hell is that?"

"I don't even want to know," Talho choked, holding back a mouthful of bile.

A large rolling hamper filled with corpses had almost become passé, and the sound of dead flesh squelching only made Holland sigh in disgust. He looked over his shoulder to Pozharsky, who occasionally looked behind to make sure no one was following them.

"This doctor better be worth it, Captain," he said, his voice muffled under his sleeve.

"It may be more than you know. If he worked with the Colonel, he may have information about where he is now."

"You best be right about that."

They came to a three-way intersection. One led to the right, and the other led further straight ahead. The trail of blood likewise continued straight ahead for a few meters to a set of double doors. Mischa stopped and looked around, trying to discern where she was. Amidst the coughing and hacking and gagging, Holland stepped forward impatiently.

"Mischa, you worked here, right? Where is the doctor?"

She looked around, and down at the long red smear in the tiled floors. Holland roughly grabbed her by the collar.

"Mischa, which way?!"

"The…the blood trail…" she hacked, gesturing to the crimson path at her feet. "Follow…(cough)…the trail…"

Pozharsky said not a word, and was satisfied. He started off, but everyone was growing concerned at just how far they had to travel. Perhaps this was not worth the risk the commissar was asking. Nadia grabbed him by the wrist.

"Captain," she said through her sleeve, "you can't be serious. You want us to go _deeper_ into this thing? It's suicide!" Pozharsky scowled in disapproval.

"It will be _murder_ if we don't keep moving. I thought I made it clear to everyone: we're not leaving until we find and capture the doctor."

"Kill," Holland corrected. "Capture or kill, you said."

"Yes, yes, I know what I said! Moscow wants him alive!"

"Over here!" Mischa called, leaning against the next set of double doors. "I hear something."

The squad gathered around and Holland pressed his ear against the wall, trying to hear what was going on in the next room. A faint mechanical whirring sound. Some whimpering, and frantic pacing. And an argument taking shape.

"So, sturmbannfuhrer," one German voice said, "we meet again. How long has it been? Since Auschwitz, am I right?" (A/N: Sturmbannfuhrer: a paramilitary rank in the SS equivalent to a major. Literally means "storm/assault unit leader.")

"Franz, ist tut mir leid," another German pleaded desperately. "Sie müssen das nicht tun. Der Krieg ist vorbei, um Gottes willen!" (A/N: Franz, I'm sorry. You don't have to do this. The war is over, for God's sake!)

"Oh, you don't have to apologize. I'm going to make it all okay, now."

"Doctor," one Slavic voice charged, "there is no time for this! Those intruders may be here any minute! If you want to leave, you need to do it now!"

"ENOUGH! I said I would do it once this experiment is done. Now focus!"

No doubt about it. The doctor was definitely in there, and he was planning something strange…and gruesome behind those doors. If they wanted to capture him, and finally end this madness, they had to do it now. Holland's squad stacked up on both sides of the door, and Pozharsky right behind them, camera still rolling. Nadia and Roza, somewhat unwillingly, readied themselves to kick down the door.

"Do it, now!" Pozharsky ordered.

The two ex-secret policemen kicked open the doors which revealed a large operating room, complete with a gurney on a pair of rails in the middle of the room. At the very end, facing a series of opaque windows were three men.

One, an elderly bald man in his 50s with glasses, wore a white lab coat with faded blood stains at the hem which hid a black suit, tie and waistcoat. In his hand was a medical saw normally used for cutting through plaster, an errant and foreboding sign of what he was planning to do. Strapped to a chair in front of the doctor was a younger man in his 30s wearing a German SS uniform. His head had been shaven bald, and his face freshly cleaned. He was evidently the subject of this gruesome experiment. The third man behind the doctor wore a clean Red Army uniform and looked to be a captain, with a full head of blonde hair and urgent blue eyes.

He was the first to turn around in shock and try to fight off the intruders. However, Nadia was quick on the draw, and fired four shots of her C96 at the officer. They all connected with the captain's chest cavity, and killed him instantly.

The squad filed into the operating room and secured a perimeter, sealing off any route of escape. Weaver and Talho jammed the doors shut and locked themselves in. There would be no interruptions to stop them this time.

Holland forcefully removed the SS officer from the operating chair, throwing him onto the ground. While the SS officer was glad to be free from whatever experiment Deckard had been planning, it did not mean his total freedom. Nadia and Roza restrained him while Holland pulled his M1911 pistol on the doctor and forced him into the chair instead.

"So, Herr Doctor," Pozharsky said with expectance as he stridently stepped towards him, "this is where you have been hiding this whole time."

"I already said I would go when I was finished!" Deckard shot, his glasses falling down his nose. "Good God, do you Russians have no patience?"

"You must have me confused with someone else, Doctor. I'm not from the facility. You've been out of the NKVD's custody for far too long. Now, before we go, you will answer our questions."

Deckard fell back into his chair, slightly shocked. This was completely unexpected. He knew there were intruders trying to break into the laboratory, but it was never clear who they were, or why they were here.

"Tell me, Doctor Deckard: why didn't Colonel Novikov hand you over to us like he was ordered?"

"He said he needed my help in some plan he had. He needed my knowledge to develop something to help him."

"What did you work on with him?" Deckard laughed, and visually scanned the commissar from his head to his toes.

"I thought you would guess, Commissar, being a security agent and all."  
"Don't get smart with me, Doctor. You're on thin ice already. Now, why did he need you?"

"My involvement in Germany's _Uranprojekt_ interested him. I remember he told me in Berlin how my work may yet have uses. He wanted me to develop a prototype uranium bomb…just as the Fuhrer wanted before it was too late."

At the word "bomb," every militiaman's face, along with Nadia and Roza's, went pale. A bomb? Was that why the commissar would deceive them all? For some secret weapon developed by Germany? And why did Dewey want such a weapon?

"We came…" Talho whispered to Nadia, "all this way…for some superweapon?"

"So it seems, Sergeant. Though, I can't say I am very surprised. And I think I know why."

Everyone was lost in the shock of the doctor's revelation as he continued on, pontificating about his breakthrough.

"Imagine, Commissar, if a single bomb could flatten an entire city. Well, it can be done with the uranium atom. All that is needed is for the nucleus of that atom to split, and the amount of energy released is more than any conventional bomb. It can be as much as 500 kilotons! Such a weapon would make everything else…planes, tanks, entire armies…completely obsolete."

Holland, frustrated and completely horror-struck that they had all been led on just for a weapon grab, now stepped forward.

"Wait a goddamn minute, Captain. Do you mean to tell me we came all this way to get our hands on some new weapon? But why? The war is over, in case you haven't noticed!"

"I said already this is not your business, Lieutenant. Leave this to me and I promise—"

Infuriated, Holland violently shoved him back a few inches.

"TO HELL WITH YOUR PROMISES! I didn't come here for some ballistic scavenger hunt! I came because I want to find my brother!" He swung his head around, and pointed the pistol at Deckard. "And you are going to tell me where he is."

"He-he's going to Germany now," Deckard said fearfully, "with my prototype. I was to join him to develop a delivery method for it!"

"What do you mean, 'delivery?'"

"What do you think I mean, boy? He has a bomb, but a bomb is no good without a way to send it!"

"Lieutenant," Pozharsky interjected, "your brother will be taken care of, I assure you. But first we should escort Doctor Deckard back to Moscow for further questioning."

"WHAT?!" every militiaman shouted.

Now the whole room was alight with arguments, clamor and chaos. No one, least of all Holland or Talho, was prepared to backtrack all the way to the capital so a madman like Deckard could be held by the Soviets. This was not why they came! This is not why they fought and bled and died! The war was over, for heaven's sake! Why would the Soviet Union possibly need such a destructive, terrible weapon like Deckard's?

"I didn't come here just to retrieve some super bomb!" Weaver protested. "Especially not when the lieutenant's brother is trying to use it for God knows what!"

"He's right!" cried another. "We should stop Dewey first!"

"A weapon like that shouldn't be allowed to exist at all!" Talho piped up, her patience long exhausted. "It would only cause more harm!"

"Agreed, Sergeant Yukieva," Holland said at last.

The young lieutenant, his face grimy and his endurance flagging, cocked the hammer of his pistol.

"How long until my brother reaches Germany? What more does he need? Tell me or you die here and now."

Pozharsky now had had enough, and tried to push Holland away. Holland's eyes flared and now was thoroughly sick of the commissar's schemes, and a short tussle ensued.

"We need the doctor ALIVE, Lieutenant! If you kill him, I will make sure you and your whole family are made enemies of the Soviet Union! Your friends will never set foot in Russia again and live to tell about it!"

"You know what I think of you and your 'Workers' Paradise?'"

Holland kneed him in the stomach, sending him back a few feet. Meanwhile, Talho began formulating a plan to finally end this long ordeal of madness and deceit. She whispered to Nadia,

"Give me your pistol."

Pozharsky regained his footing and swung a fist towards the younger man, who dodged it easily. However, Holland didn't foresee a hard kick to the ribs. He knelt in pain while Pozharsky pointed his finger at Holland, warning him of a line about to be crossed.

"Do you want to lose your little sister, Novikov?! Do you want to lose your father?! The Soviet Union needs that doctor, more than you need to find your brother! If you kill him, I will have the entire Interior Ministry after you and everyone you know and love!"

"You forget one thing, Commissar," said a voice from behind him. "Dead men tell no tales."

BANG! BANG!

Two shots reverberated throughout the operating room, deafening everyone. Captain Stepan Pozharsky's body fell forward, two perforations in the back of his head leaking a crimson fluid onto the floor. All were silent, as they looked disbelievingly at Talho, holding Nadia's C96 pistol. Her face was smeared with blood, her black hair an utter wreck, and her hazel eyes cold and desensitized. She, like everyone else who set foot into this facility, had had enough.

Talho looked at Holland and nodded. It was time to finish this debacle and continue on their search. The young lieutenant nodded in confirmation and returned to the doctor.

"Doctor Deckard, I'll ask you only once. How long until my brother reaches Germany?"

"At…at least a couple of days. I told you; he needs to find a means of delivery for the bomb."

"HOW?! STOP TALKING IN RIDDLES, YOU OLD SHIT!"

"S-s-something that will d-d-drop the b-bomb!" he said, stuttering. "An airplane, a rocket launcher, an artillery gun, anything that will propel the bomb to its intended target!"

"And what is the target, unless…?"

Holland trailed off, and realized on his own what that meant. In an instant, it was clear just what Dewey was planning, and what this bomb was for. This was more than Dewey just trying to kill his best friend. This was something far bigger than any of them imagined. Deckard smiled.

"…you understand, now, ja?"

"Yeah. I do. I understand everything now."

"Then you know what you have to do."

Deckard confidently stepped up out of his chair and brushed off his lab coat. He proceeded to walk to the double doors, guarded by Weaver and two other militiamen. Behind him, Holland aimed his pistol at the doctor's back.

"This is for Sasha."

BANG!

A bullet zipped through the doctor's back and penetrated his heart. The doctor stopped, and grasped his chest in surprise. Groaning, he slowly crumbled to the floor like a house of cards, and the entire room fell silent. It was finished.

Holland looked to Nadia and Roza, still holding the SS officer down.

"Both of you, search this room for any documents that could help us. Burn everything else."

The lieutenant turned his gaze to Mischa, who had been cowering in a corner, too shocked and distressed to say anything throughout this fearful scene.

"What's the fastest way out of here, Mischa?"

* * *

 **A/N: And with that, I think that's enough gruesome human experiments, betrayals, secret weapons, and laboratories for one chapter. Come tomorrow we'll be out of the woods (literally), and moving to the next location. Hope everyone enjoys this and be sure to check for updates tomorrow!**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Well, I think everyone has had enough of ghastly labs with human experiments for one story. I'm pretty sure I won't write something like that in future stories, as much fun as it was. So this is a little breather before plunging into the final stretch of the story. In this chapter we will see a few things and learn some more, first among them Chertov's fate. What happens to him? Read and see!**

* * *

 **Chapter Seventeen**

 **June 27** **th** **, 1945**

 **Somewhere outside of Warsaw, Poland**

It had been three hours since the small group finally left the abattoir that passed for a laboratory, and everyone had the chance to stop and breathe. They all retreated to the shack in the woods, not having the strength to relocate just yet. After the numerous horrors encountered in that forsaken place, they needed a respite.

However, the most thankful for rest was Talho Yukieva, who could no longer hold back the bile burning up into her throat. Upon sight of the creek, she stopped to empty her system of all the trauma of the past several hours. Even after she was completely cleaned out, she did not continue on to the shack. She was too lost in staring at the creek, too soaked in the shock of all she had seen and done.

This wasn't why she came. This was never part of the plan. All they had to do was locate Dewey and find out the truth of his actions. All they had to do was stop him. However, what she and her friends stepped into was far more complicated and terrifying than anyone could have imagined. Dewey had far more planned than just a simple elimination of Renton Thurston. He had something bigger in mind, something involving more death, more destruction, and life-altering consequences. And why was Dewey heading to Germany now? For what would he use that uranium bomb?

Talho looked down at her reflection in the creek, but it was not her face she saw staring back at her. It was the face of the now dead Captain Stepan Pozharsky, the commissar who lied to them all, who almost got them all killed in pursuit of Franz Deckard's terrible weapon. His eyes were dull and empty, blood seeping from his mouth and from the back of his head.

The young sergeant's eyes widened in shock and fear for a second and quickly backed away from the creek's reflection. Why was she thinking about such a thing now, when she should be gathering her strength for the next move? Why was she thinking about that swindling cheat and liar, of all people?

There was no remorse over the fate of the traitor that cost them half of their squad. There shouldn't even _be_ guilt over killing him! But why did it come back to haunt her so soon? Why wasn't she content that she took a stand against someone who was obstructing them?

"Talho?"

The black-haired girl swung her head to see her cherished lover, Holland walking to her.

"Sergeant Weaver told me you were over by the river. Is everything…alright?"

The girl pursed her lips and looked away, back at the river. Holland noticed that look of distress from a mile away.

"Want to talk about it?"

Talho sighed and sat down on the bank of the creek, staring off into the woods. She could see the dark blocky silhouette of the laboratory in the distance, haunting her. Upon killing both the doctor and Pozharsky, Holland ordered the entire facility cleaned of any important documents. He wanted to demolish the place as well, but there were not enough explosives to plant in such a massive, intricate facility. In truth, she didn't care one way or the other; she just wanted to get as far away as possible from the place.

"Holland, what the hell have we gotten ourselves mixed up in? Everything is so fucked up now."

"Tell me about it. It's all a big mess."

"And…I still can't believe what we did."

Holland frowned with discomfort. He was all too aware of what his girlfriend was implying. Just a couple of hours ago, the couple took part in killing two people. One of them sought to acquire a weapon for the Soviet Union to use against the world, and the other was an obsessive, demented scientist who posed a threat from his very existence.

"It had to be done," Holland insisted. "Those people needed to be stopped."

"Yeah," she said ruefully, tossing a stone into the creek, "and now it's going to bite us in the ass. Deckard was Dewey's goon, and Pozharsky a government agent, Holland. If anyone finds out that we killed them in cold blood…what will happen to the rest of us, then?"

Vasli remained silent, unable to counterpoint Talho's words. Yes, they may have painted a huge target on their backs for their defiance in the laboratory. But, at the same time, they also threw a wrench into Dewey's plans. With the doctor eliminated, Dewey would have to wait a little longer on a delivery method. That had to count for something.

"We're going to be fine." Talho looked at her commanding officer and lover incredulously.

"How can you be so sure?"

"We at least delayed Dewey," Holland reasoned. "And we denied Russia an awful weapon."

"I know that, but all the same…we may have just created a bigger problem. You always told me how the secret police never held back against enemies of the state. Now that we've gone against them…"

She trailed off, unsure of what their fate would be. It was undeniable that killing the commissar would turn the entire Soviet government against them, and they would be hunted like wild prey. Even with that knowledge, the former partisan found the strength to rest his hand on Talho's, trying to comfort her, in his own little way.

"One step at a time, Talho. Let's just try not think about it now, yeah? The best we can do is move forward from here."

The troubled sergeant could only nod her head slowly, realizing that moving forward was the only option. Dewey was still the priority, and stopping whatever he planned had to come first. They would handle Soviet state ire once the larger threat was out of the way.

"Novikov? Yukieva?"

The couple turned around and seen Roza, her face cleansed of blood and dirt, politely addressing them.

"Chertov is awake. We can't start the interrogation without you."

The two militiamen picked each other up and started back towards the shack in the woods. Where Morita, the Polish partisan and their guide, was standing guard. Where inside, Holland's best friend and younger sister interrogated an old enemy from their past, a ghost that simply refused to rest.

»»»»»

A heavy splash of water on Chertov's face aroused him from a state of unconsciousness. He passed out from heavy blood loss since the merciful end of his long duel with Renton, and now found himself tied to a wooden chair. Across a table sat his old nemesis and rival, Renton Thurston, staring solemnly back at him. He hardly looked like the same Renton who fought him with the force of a demon not three hours prior.

His face, sullied with grime and dust, had a sobered look about it, as if he had walked through Hell itself and came out the other side. In his oak brown hair clods of dirt clung desperately, as if hanging from rope. His jade eyes seemed hollow and tired, with dark crescents hugging below them. Even his makeshift uniform, a light brown tunic, was ragged and half opened revealing a loose-fitting white shirt.

"Glad you could join us," Renton said sardonically. "Have a nice nap?"

"I would have slept better knowing you were buried in the dirt," Chertov spat contemptuously.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I plan on living a lot longer than you." Renton adjusted himself and leaned in. "Now, let's get down to brass tacks. You're going to tell me everything you know about Dewey Novikov and why he wants me dead."

"And why would I do that?"

On cue, Chertov felt a hard, sharp blow to his right temple. Upon looking up he saw Eureka, scowling at her old neighbor and childhood bully and holding her weapon of choice, a scoped Mosin-Nagant.

"Because if you don't, neither of us will be as gentle next time. Now start talking." Chertov scoffed.

"You're wasting your time, Thurston. Colonel Novikov has already left for Germany; he's putting his plan into action now. He'll kill you too once he's ready. He'll kill all of you!"

Eureka, thoroughly sick of his ranting, jabbed him again with the butt of her rifle, this time in Chertov's side. He groaned in pain as he felt a soreness in one of his ribs.

"Save the revenge threats for someone who gives a rat's ass," Renton said, his eyes dull.

Just then, Holland and Talho entered the room. One chocolate brown eye cast a glare at the two, and Chertov jeered as they came beside them. Both militiamen looked rather disheveled from the horrific ordeal he and his squad lived through in that laboratory. Holland's grey hair was more of a tangled mess than usual, and Talho's bangs were frayed from trauma. Her fingers still trembled as they gripped the stock of her rifle. Holland seemed more composed than before, as he stood behind Chertov's chair.

The young, vengeful officer sneered at the sight of them.

"So, Holland, you bagged yourself a bourgeois broad, too, eh? I guess treason runs in the family."

Holland did not even look him in the eye, and only responded with clubbing him across the head with his Colt .45 pistol.

"Watch your mouth, Chertov," Talho warned. "We don't have time for your shit."

"Indeed," Renton concurred. "Now first thing's first. Why does Dewey want me dead?"

"I told you. He saw you as a hindrance," Chertov hissed.

"To what?" The officer snickered.

"Quite a few things. Namely, how you're an American who came to 'aid' our country in our hour of need. A citizen of the bourgeois bastion coming to help the Workers' Paradise…just complicates the narrative."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about our two countries, idiot! What do you think is going to happen to us now that the war is over? You expect us to be friends because we fought the Nazis together?"

"Why not? We've been on your side throughout the whole war." Chertov smirked and laughed derisively.

"If you really believe that, you are every bit the naïve fool you were when we met. You have and always will be our true enemy."

Renton paused, and wondered how he really fit into Dewey's plan. If this was about "narrative" and fighting "the true enemy," then his endgame was more than just Renton's death. This laboratory, the German doctor, and this uranium bomb developed by him were all part of something much larger. He had a hint of what it was, but it was not clear. He needed a confirmation. But before any of that…

"Since Dewey just hired you for your vendetta with me, let me ask you something. What was your problem with me to begin with? I honestly barely even remember what we fought about."

Chertov froze, zapped by the revelation from Renton. It was bad enough that he had survived attempt after attempt on his life. It was bad enough that he stole the spotlight from him in Stalingrad twice, and had risen to fame and renown in his own country, and even whisked one of his neighbors away from the country. But he did not even _remember_ why they clashed?

"The fact you still live is an affront to everything I have fought and bled for my whole life! Everyone calls you a hero, a symbol of Western solidarity, the American Russian, and I—"

Aggravated, Renton closed an angry fist and swung it against Chertov's jaw.

"FUCK OFF WITH YOUR IDEOLOGICAL BULLSHIT!" Renton screeched. "I WANT _YOUR_ REASONS!"

Eureka moved over to Renton, fearing he was about to lose control again. She need not have worried, as Chertov was all too happy to give his reasons. Though not before a long, hearty laugh. He gazed up at the roof, bearing his stained teeth in a rueful, somewhat satisfied grin.

"You want my reasons, do you, Thurston? Fine. When you came to Stalingrad, and everyone in my neighborhood fawned over you as the exotic foreigner, I saw you intruding on my territory. Everyone wanted to know what life was like outside. Everyone wanted to be your best friend. I just wanted you gone. You ruined everything I had. TWICE! TWICE YOU TAKE EVERYTHING FROM ME!"

Chertov dropped his head, a small spot of blood dropping onto the wooden table.

"When you came back, and got involved in a war that wasn't yours, that was when I swore I would hunt you down, and make you pay! I'd see you in the dirt, and have everyone who sided with you punished for ever thinking you could be trusted! Eureka, Holland, Mikhail, EVERYONE!"

The officer's brown eyes looked up, staring hatefully at Renton, only sat back in shock after hearing the vengeful tirade of his old enemy.

"You were jealous. That's what this was all about, wasn't it, Ilya? You hated having the attention on me. That's it, isn't it?"

"What of it?!" he spluttered. "Everything you've done to me would make anyone jealous, and want you dead!"

"No, it wouldn't," Renton answered plainly. "You cannot, even for ten seconds, put aside what happened between us and lead a normal life. You're absolutely obsessed with correcting some stupid slight that happened between us years ago. I took away your spotlight? Give me a break!"

"And who are you to judge, Thurston?! You're the reason for all of this!"

"IT'S YOU, CHERTOV! IT'S _ALWAYS_ BEEN YOU FROM THE VERY START!"

Renton stood up, now thoroughly sick of Chertov's childish ranting, stood up and buttoned up his tunic. His eyebrows sank in anger and contempt at his rival, dumbfounded that he never let go of this hatred for almost seven years. Anyone other person would have long forgotten past transgressions and moved on, but not Ilya Pavlovich Chertov. He always clung to the slights and arguments past, collected guilt, and held onto it as tightly as a dog would its bone.

"All I have heard from you is bitching about something that happened between us almost seven years ago that should have zero relevance in your life at all, and to top it all off, you don't get why it _is_ on you and not me, Eureka, Holland or anyone else. You paint yourself as a poor innocent victim, when you are anything but. Everyone can see it, even the soldiers who served under you in this war. Since you are incapable of hearing it from anyone else, let me tell you what you really are."

Chertov's head rose slightly, his chocolate brown eyes widening with each vindictive word out of his rival's mouth.

"You are a gigantic spoiled brat who is absolutely stuck in his childhood years and incapable of getting out of them. You worry about personal vendettas more than just living your life because the lure of childish drama was just too much for you to let go. Nothing you have done shows me you know what true responsibility is. What you are is a shallow, egocentric, selfish man who has never done anything for anyone other than himself."

Renton sighed and his hands curled at the edge of the table. Everyone was stunned into silence, even Eureka, as he gathered his strength to conclude. The burning fire of odium had long been extinguished from Chertov's chocolate eyes, only to be replaced by devastation and numbness.

"Ilya, you've wasted the first 20 years of your life with nothing to show for it. All you have to your credit is a bloodstained uniform and a feud that brings nothing but hardship and suffering to everyone it touches. And it was all over some senseless gripe with me from seven years ago?! FUCK THE PAST! IT SHOULDN'T DEFINE WHO YOU ARE!"

The young American breathed heavily, thoroughly exhausted and sick of dealing with this man. In the end, he should have known that this was what would come from talking with him. Chertov always seemed to bring out the worst in both of them.

"Who you choose to be in this moment is who you will be now for the rest of your life. You can't learn it from hearing it; you have to do it, and I know that is something you just cannot do. I understand now why you've never had a single friend in your corner your entire life. You have nothing to give back to anyone except hatred. I hope after this ordeal you'll be locked away somewhere, and the world will see you for the pathetic little coward you really are."

Finally spent, Renton walked towards the door leading outside, and spoke quietly to Nadia and Roza who were standing guard.

"I'm done with this lunatic. Have at him."

Neither of the women questioned Renton's decision, but only recognized that he needed a moment to be alone, and perhaps a quiet word and a gentle touch. That much was evident when Eureka continued out the door after him as they slipped in to continue the interrogation.

Seeing their former commanding officer was not anything Nadia or Roza expected to happen on this journey of theirs. To see him sitting there, strapped to the chair much like how he was when in the custody of the 303rd Militia Regiment, left both former security agents with their stomachs in knots. As Chertov looked up, and saw the familiar head of Nadia's windswept blonde hair and the dark, Central Asian complexion of Roza, his face went through several stages.

A loss of color, looking much like a ghost.

A sheet of sweat coating his cheeks and forehead.

A brief glimmer of hope in his dark chocolate eyes.

The same hope quickly dashed as his mouth fell open.

"Agent 340…Agent 271…you're alive?"

"We are, sir," Nadia said ruefully, walking to Renton's seat. "Although I don't go by my code number anymore." Chertov looked to Roza, whose expression was unreadable, but somber.

"But how? Where…were you?"

"We have been in America ever since the failed operation. Both of us have tried to move on from what happened."

"Lieutenant Chertov," Nadia spoke with a leaden tone, "you need to stop this and tell us what Colonel Novikov is planning. There's no point in keeping up this façade."

It was at that moment when Chertov finally realized something. It was just as Renton said; the people who served under him did not do so out of loyalty, or out a shared vision. Alekseev and Karataev abandoned him. Nadia and Roza were now working with Renton, his sworn enemy. All of those who worked with him deserted him when he needed them most. Even after seven years, Ilya Pavlovich Chertov had always been alone. His vendetta with Renton was the one thing that kept him going for seven years, and that was why he was always hated and forsaken at the very end.

That realization alone forced him to finally let go. Chocolate brown eyes were laden with sorrow. A bitter tear welled up in his left eye as he slumped his head down.

"No one was with me…" he whispered. "Everything I gave…it was all for nothing…"

Roza and Nadia exchanged bewildered glances, taken aback by the fractured mental state of their former commanding officer. He broke down in tears, much like how 909 did upon learning the truth. As tears soaked the table, Nadia wondered if it was wise to press him. But the gravity of the situation demanded she continue. Time was of the essence, and they could not afford to slow down. The interrogation continued unabated.

»»»»»

 **June 28** **th** **, 1945**

Only one day had passed, and everyone was long exhausted of the woods. The forbidding silhouette of the laboratory across the creek gave all a bad pain in their stomach. Remembering the horrors encountered, the fetid smells, the claustrophobic environs, was enough to give all enough cause to leave the woods and return to Warsaw. There were no objections to the move, especially from Holland or Talho. According to Vladimir and Piotr Nikolayevich Novikov, it was imperative they move now.

As the militiamen packed up their gear and readied to leave the forsaken woods at last, Nadia went over the high points of the interrogation with Renton.

"So, did he talk?" he asked, walking with her along the edge of the clearing.

"In my experience, they always talk. He gave me everything, going as far back as when Colonel Novikov approached him with the offer in Stalingrad. So much of what the Colonel told me back then makes sense now."

"What do you mean?"

"When we first met, Dewey always spoke about how you were a stumbling block to some greater plan for the future of the Soviet Union. That the country would be better once you had died."

Renton ground his teeth and kicked an errant branch out of his way, into the wilderness. He was growing sick and tired of all this runaround rhetoric.

"Nadia, stop wasting my damn time and give it to me straight! What the hell is Dewey scheming?!"

"Calm yourself, Thurston. Just listen. From what I could gather, Dewey's plot is to use that uranium bomb against the Western Allies in Germany. And you complicated the narrative of Americans as the real enemy."

Renton stopped, and looked back at Nadia. Her deep blue eyes looked out into the woods, pensive and fraught with concern. This was not just a personal rivalry for Dewey; it was part of a larger gambit, one that threatened everything for which they ever fought and bled. A plot that threatened to start another bloody conflict, so soon after ending the last one.

"To do that would mean war…" Renton slowly realized.

"That's the whole point. It's been Dewey's vision all along. A new war with a different enemy, and that bomb will give the Soviets the edge."

"Is that why Pozharsky lied to us? Was it just to get that bomb for the Soviet Union?"

"I believe so, yes. Anything to gain an advantage over the British and Americans. Something to pave the way for that 'socialist utopia.'" Renton sighed, disgustedly.

"We just _fought_ a war! We shouldn't be enemies at all!" Nadia smiled wistfully, and laughed ruefully.

"That would be nice, wouldn't it? You see, Thurston, even if we fought on the same side in this war, it does not mean Stalin or the Communist Party do not have contempt for the West. But they'd rather wait and recover after this war than start a new one. Chertov was right about one thing: our countries' view of the world cannot be reconciled. The war against fascism is over. The next war will be between capitalism and communism."

"Like hell that will happen. Not if I have anything to say about it." His hand grasped at his belt, the leather cutting his skin. "It's even more imperative to find Dewey and stop this before it starts."

"Agreed."

Renton swung open the door and found Chertov sitting where he left him after his tirade the previous day. In the wooden chair, hands tied behind him, head slumped down, the very picture of a defeated enemy. It was a sad sight to see him, a man who had wasted his life on a quest for vengeance, finally faced with reality. The reality that he was always alone, and his grand plan for revenge was in ruins. All he had to look forward to was a labor camp at best or a hangman's noose at worst.

Beside Chertov stood Eureka, standing guard and keeping a watchful eye on him. She likewise had no patience left for the firebrand that had tormented them throughout their childhood and almost killed them countless times. Her strong grey eyes looked on with disdain and a quiet despair at her defeated, humiliated neighbor and former classmate. Chertov barely even had the strength to raise his head when Renton and Nadia entered the room.

"Eureka," Nadia spoke, "it's time. We're heading out."

"Very well." Eureka looked down at her old bully, and her voice became harder than stone. "Up, Ilya."

There was a slight pause. Chertov did not move, nor did he raise his head. He only looked down at his boots, his mop-like brown hair covering his eyes.

"Tiy slyshal yeyo, Chertov," Renton said, sternly. "Poshli s nami." (A/N: You heard her, Chertov. Come with us.)

Another moment of silence passed, but this time, Chertov had the strength to look his old rival in the eye. He wore a wistful, hopeless smile. He knew what awaited him. He knew there was no way out for him this time. Everyone who ever fought and served with him was gone. He was alone.

"Prostitye, Thurston," he rebuffed, his voice raspy. "Nikuda nye poidu." (A/N: Sorry, Thurston. I'm not going anywhere.)

"You are," Renton pressed, one hand reaching for his Mosin-Nagant. "I will have you dragged out of here if need be."

"Why? I've given you everything you need, haven't I? Dragging me off to Germany is not going to help you, and it's not going to stop Dewey. I'm dead weight! Just fucking kill me and be done with it! Like you wanted to in the laboratory!" Renton scowled.

"Skip the pity party, Chertov; I'm not interested in your whining. You're coming with us and that's final. Eureka, release him."

Eureka moved to undo his restraints, while Nadia reached for her C96. The last thing they needed was him pulling something crazy and attempt to escape. As much as Renton did not want to take him along, they still needed whatever information he could provide. Just as Eureka released his wrists from the leather straps, something happened which no one expected.

Suddenly, Chertov swung one arm up and contacted with Eureka's jaw, tossing her off her balance. She stumbled back, and as she did so, the disgraced officer grabbed her revolver, having been disarmed after coming out of the laboratory. Fearing an altercation, Renton rushed forward hoping to grab the revolver and foil whatever last-ditch plan Chertov had in store. But what he did next surprised everyone.

The young officer, bully, firebrand and now failure of a man did not point the revolver at anyone, but pressed the barrel against his temple. He smiled and stood up as best as he could, his feet still strapped to the chair. Now, all simply wanted to stop him. But no one and nothing could. His foul breath hissed the words,

"Do svidaniya, American Russian."

BANG!

A shot and a flash of red left everyone with a ringing in their ears. Ilya Pavlovich Chertov's body went limp, and collapsed back into the chair before tumbling over onto its side. All of them were left with disbelief and their faces frozen in devastation at the young man's deed. All except one.

Renton only stared despondently at his rival, expecting nothing else from the man who was always a coward. He _would_ take this way out, and accept death rather than live defeated.

"Everyone out. Let's go."

»»»»»

 **June 29** **th** **, 1945**

 **Warsaw, Poland**

Returning to a bombed out, burned down city like Warsaw was almost refreshing after the two-day long ordeal in the woods. Holland wanted to waste no time and continue on to Germany to search for Dewey, but there was a complication…a few, to be precise. Mischa, the ex-nurse who defected and joined Holland's team of militiamen, did not know exactly where in Germany Dewey was heading. Despite the fact killing the doctor had delayed Dewey's search for a bomb delivery method, it would not hold him back for very long. But another, more personal matter changed the plans for everyone.

Piotr Nikolayevich had to attend a meeting in Berlin with the General Staff of the Red Army.

The timing could not be any worse. At least for Holland and Eureka.

As they accompanied their older brother Vladimir and father to the train station, Holland did his best to convince them to wait longer, until they had found Dewey.

"Father," he said as they entered the station, "can't this council wait? For all we know, Dewey could be in Berlin!"

"It's something I have to do, son. This could very well decide what postwar Europe will look like."

"What do you mean, Father?" Eureka said curiously. "The war's over, so the Red Army will return home, now, won't it? Or move east to fight Japan?"

"I'd like that. But there are those who think our country will be better, safer, if we stationed troops permanently in eastern Europe and Germany."

Holland and Eureka looked to each other in bewilderment at such a proposal. A military occupation of half of Europe? For what purpose? And surely there were families waiting for the soldiers to finally return home. There was still an enemy to the east, who still fought doggedly and fanatically, that needed to be defeated. As long as Japan stood defiant, the end of the war was some ways off.

"What will you do, then, Father?" Eureka asked. "Is there anything you can do?"

"The only thing we _can_ do," Vladimir said resolutely, checking his watch. "Tell everyone the truth. It's the only hope we have."

As the train arrived, Holland was struck with fear. With Dewey moving to Germany, there was a likelihood of him targeting the General Staff meeting. To disrupt the command structure would provide a perfect avenue for him to launch an attack against the British and Americans, and use Deckard's uranium bomb. The thought of losing both his older brother and his father in one blow, after losing his home and his livelihood to the firestorm of war, was too much for him to bear. They were his only family, after all.

"Father, just say the word and I will have my entire detail here in two minutes." Piotr Nikolayevich shook his head in refusal.

"Nyet. I won't allow it." Holland almost stumbled back in shock.

"Why?"

"You lost almost half of your squad in that laboratory. Bringing a battered and tired squad to protect us will only do more harm than good." Holland's gloved hands turned into fists of frustration.

"Father, if you think we aren't capable, I can assure you…" Piotr Nikolayevich touched his son's shoulder with a firm hand.

"It's not about being incapable, Vasyusha. What matters is that you and your squad rest up for the time being. I would think an officer would understand that much."

Holland glowered, insistent, and his worries getting the best of him.

"Who else will watch your back, then?! There might be a surprise trap for you all! Dewey could target you and cause mayhem!"

Out of nowhere, Roza stepped forward and volunteered, sensing the lad's anxiety. How did she even get here? Had this all been arranged beforehand? Holland looked at the ex-secret policeman with incredulity and surprise.

"I will accompany them, Lieutenant."

"Roza?" Holland asked in confusion. "When did you get here?"

"I have already gone over the details with General and Major Novikov. You needn't worry about us, sir. Try and get some rest and have your men refit. I will meet you all in Berlin."

"Are you sure about this, Roza?"

"Positive. I will be ready for whatever happens. Don't forget: I used to do this kind of work often."

"Besides," Vladimir chimed in, "there are troops already in Berlin. We will have security around to watch out for any funny business."

"Can you trust them, Volodya?" Eureka asked worriedly. Vladimir grinned with confidence.

"Of course. They're veterans with whom I've fought for four years. They've never failed me."

Holland sighed, seeing that there was not much he could do. As much as he hated to admit it, and wished it were different, his men were exhausted and battered. The wounded needed treatment, and he needed a moment to collect his thoughts. Not just him. Talho was still raw from the ordeal in the woods as well.

"I still don't like the sound of all of this."

"None of us do, little brother," Vladimir told Holland, trying to assure him. "But, we all still have roles to play in this world."

Eureka and Holland exchanged looks of doubt and worry. Neither of them were thrilled with being separated from their family again so soon. But, they couldn't afford to be reckless, either. Time was of the essence, and everyone still needed to recuperate from a grueling ordeal if they wish to survive the next. For the time being, they had to trust their family.

And so, with a heavy heart, Holland and Eureka exchanged strong hugs to their father and older brother.

"I'm sorry about what I said to you back in Moscow, Father," Eureka said quietly, with a shaky breath. "Please be careful out there in Berlin. I want you to be there on my big day."

"And I will be the one to walk you down the aisle, Eurekasha."

Piotr Nikolayevich smiled, holding his only daughter close to his chest. While Roza stepped onto the passenger car, Vladimir gave some parting words of encouragement to his younger brother.

"I'm really proud of you, Holland," Vladimir said, with pride in his voice. "You've grown so strong over the years."

Holland shook his head humbly. He couldn't really give himself all the credit. Standing before his family again would not have been possible, were it not for the special people in his life. One in particular.

"I never would have made this far without my friends…and Talho."

The two Red Army officers boarded the train, and the two siblings did not leave until the train was long out of the station. Even then, they could not go back until they had finally reconciled their doubts and reservations. They would be together again, soon, after all. The city of Berlin was crawling with soldiers, so surely…surely…Dewey would not dare target the meeting. And why would he? What would the marshals and generals, their own father, have that Dewey wanted?

»»»»»

Warsaw's rubble-filled streets and bombed out homes hardly provided a luxurious place for sleeping, eating or repose. But for a small group of foreigners and expatriates on a manhunt, it was all they had. They hardly had the privilege to be picky about where to stay. Even the dingy, dust-covered apartment was a sight of joy for the tired, wounded, and mentally shaken militiamen, and Renton and Eureka. No, they did not necessarily have a working stove, and lighting was scarce or nonexistent. But the feeling of a warm bed and a quiet night with no fear of intrusion or betrayal by Soviet commissars was a blessing.

One militia sergeant, lying on a steel-spring bed, and looking up aimlessly at the cracked ceiling, was locked in a quiet battle with those same feelings of betrayal. How was it Talho and everyone else was strung along so easily by a member of the Interior Ministry? It should have been clear to her and everyone else in their crew that Stepan Pozharsky was a suspicious new addition to their journey. The security agent clearly did not care about Dewey's plot. All that mattered to him was the acquisition of a new, deadly weapon. He was ready and willing to use them all as pawns on some grand chessboard.

In the end, she refused to simply stand by. She was willing to do whatever it took to stop Pozharsky before being cast aside as expendable. So, she shot and killed Pozharsky. Shot him with no second thoughts. In cold blood.

Ever since that dark deed, Talho's inner mind chastised her. Her conscience wrestled with all the choices she could have made; all the things she could have done differently.

She just wanted the easy way out. She was just begging for a kill.

No, that wasn't it, Talho reasoned. She was just trying to protect her comrades and Holland.

Her sleeve covered her eyes, and she squirmed on the bed with a groan.

"Chyort voz'mi…shto ya delayu?" Goddammit…what am I doing?

Heavy footsteps and the creaking of floorboards heralded her beau and commanding officer's arrival. The door was little more than splinters which could not hope to lock anyone out more than three feet tall. A casualty of incessant bombing, no doubt.

"Roll call is done," Holland said with a heavy sigh. "We have six men ready for duty. Mischa is attending to them now." Talho sat up and looked back at her superior.

"Good. We're going to need them now more than ever."

Holland set his officer's cap aside and ran his fingers through his tangled grey hair. It was oily and grimy, from days without a good wash.

"Frankly, I'm not worried about them. I'm more worried about what will happen to Volodya and Father in Berlin." The hazel-eyed sergeant made a small, wry smile at the worrisome lad.

"If you keep worrying all night, you will just go blind before your time, Holland." Holland rolled his eyes.

"They're my family, Talho. I can't help it. I just pray that between Roza and whatever security is there, they'll be okay." He sat down on the bed with a sigh next to her. "If we don't hear something from them by tomorrow, I want us all to move out to Germany."

Talho stood up on the bed and behind her beau of two years. She placed both hands on his broad shoulders, massaging them gently.

"And we will. But let's just rest for now. We've been through a lot, obviously. Things aren't going to get easier once we get there."

"I know all that, but…what if something sabotages their travels? What if Dewey was already prepared for them? What if— "

"Holland, stop. Enough about the worst-case scenarios, please. Just relax, at least for tonight."

The touch of her hands sent a wave of soothing calm throughout his body, and his muscles started to loosen. As much as he wanted to keep his thoughts on what was to come, all that he thought...and wanted to think...was the here and now. Here in the admittedly dingy bedroom, with his trusted subordinate and the love of his life.

"I'm just…so tired…"

Talho closed the distance while caressing and massaging into her lover's shoulders and back with ease.

"Tired of what?" She whispered into his ear.

"Of having to keep fighting. Just for once...I'd like a quiet night to myself."

Talho smiled and began to take off Holland's tunic one button at a time.

"Well, now you have it," she told him, nibbling on his ear with her chapped lips.

Now understanding what she wanted, and what he needed, Holland did not fight back. He just let his tunic be shed, leaving him bare-chested. Any worries or fears he may have had in the station had long faded into the ether, and want was left in its place. He wanted to see her, feel her, smell her, experience everything with her as he did that night in France, almost a year prior.

He stood up, and went to work unbuttoning her uniform, swiping away her belt. His hot and hungry kisses were through, slipping tongue against tongue. It didn't matter if the door was nonexistent. It didn't matter if he hadn't had a wash in several days. Neither of them cared about anything in that moment except each other.

Their tunics piled together on the dusty floors, and Talho was left in a lacy white brassiere. The coolness of air on her skin was refreshing, since her uniform still left her sweltering in the summer heat. Their time in the woods did not help matters, since humidity was amplified.

"Lace on a battlefield?" Holland said slyly. "That's surprising." Smirking, Talho gently pushed her lover onto the bed.

"I might be a soldier, but I have a taste for fashion as well, dear Holland."

"Must be hard to wash, though," he thought aloud, his hands grasping at the hem of her trousers.

The black-haired girl showered Holland with kisses to his cheeks and jawline while her hands wandered down to his leather belt.

"I must admit, it can be. I'll be thankful if we ever find a working bathtub in Germany."

"We can do more than just wash with one," he said in-between kisses.

Slowly the waistband of her trousers came down like a curtain, revealing her matching panties. Again, white with lace, but also adorned with a floral pattern embroidered on the front. Alluring yet also tastefully feminine. As his hands traveled back up her pristine thighs, he remembered that in the end that she was just that underneath the khaki fatigues. A beautiful, headstrong, confident woman.

A calloused hand playfully spanked her on her bottom. A yelp followed a wave of arousal rippling through Talho's body.

"OOH! Oh, now you're going to get it!" Talho said with a laugh.

With a husky growl, the bold female soldier pulled off Holland's riding pants, leaving him with only his stripped yellow boxers. Tossing the trousers on the floor, Talho moved swiftly. She placed heated kisses upon Holland's strong chest as her hands wandered in two different areas. Her left hand played with the growing hair on Holland's chiseled chest while the right hand rubbed against the center of his boxers.

"H…haaaa…!" Holland shuddered, enjoying such enticing contact from Talho's lips and hands.

He clutched the side of the bed frame to keep himself steady. His groans of pleasure fueled his beloved subordinate and right-hand woman, who proceeded to slowly slip her hand inside the boxers.

Another raspy moan reached Talho's ears. Her beau was clearly enjoying the attention. She couldn't afford to wait any longer. The arousal and lust for her commanding officer was far too great. The voices in her head needed to be silenced.

She slipped the boxers off her beloved, his nude body finally on display for her viewing pleasure. Talho's heart began to race with excitement, knowing it was only a matter time before the bigger event commenced. A grey flannel blanket provided their curtain so no one else could see her but Holland. She was his, he was hers, and no one else's.

She lowered herself to kiss him again, and a needy moan escaped her lips then, ushering Holland into familiar and enticing territory. His hands squirmed and wriggled underneath her panties, fully grasping at her soft flesh. An even tighter squeeze followed, with another aroused yelp.

The buxom sergeant smiled knowingly and rose again, her hazel eyes gazing seductively at her commanding officer. She turned her hands on herself, tracing the curves of her own body for Holland to appreciate. Her proud breasts, her trim waist, her toned stomach, and towards her lower center. The area that mattered to them more.

"Holland," Talho encouraged, her voice hot with lust. "Do what you want with me. Take me."

"Like you even need to ask," Holland whispered friskily.

Both of their pants found a place on the dusty floor beside their tunics. Followed by their undergarments. Followed by their boots. All that was left between them was skin, sweat, and hot breaths that puffed out every ounce of frustration, anger, betrayal, confusion, and anguish that haunted them since that horrific laboratory in the woods.

For now, until they had to move again, there was nothing else in the world. There was no Warsaw. No scheme that threatened the peace of Europe. No laboratory with unimaginable horrors. For now, for tonight, it was simply them, beneath a flannel sheet on a bare mattress.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: A small respite was needed after the bloody duel between Renton and Chertov as well as the betrayal of Holland and Talho. But while our gang is gathering their strength in Warsaw, trouble is brewing in Berlin. Dewey may have a hand in it, but apart from, him there are signs of a growing divide between the Allies. This chapter is shorter than others, but it doesn't skip out on action and intrigue. Read on and see!**

* * *

 **Chapter Eighteen**

 **July 1** **st** **, 1945**

 **Berlin, Germany**

In the aftermath of the German surrender, the entire country was occupied by the victorious European Allies, and divided into east and west by the Elbe River. In the west, Great Britain occupied the north, from Schleswig-Holstein to Westphalia and the northern Rhineland; France took the lower Rhineland, as well as the Saar Territory and parts of Baden; and America occupied Bavaria, Hessen, and the northern half of Wurttemberg. In the east, the Soviet Union controlled what was the core of Germany, including the surrounding territories of Berlin.

Berlin itself was also partitioned between the Allies in different occupation zones, despite lying right in the middle of the Soviet sphere. Ostensibly, the reason was for its symbolic importance as the capital, and former headquarters of the Nazi government. And in the eastern half of the city, beyond the Brandenburg Gate and past Unter den Linden, in what was once an opera house where Nazi bureaucrats wined and dined together plotting the destruction of all of Europe, General Piotr Nikolayevich Novikov sat in the lobby, pensively staring at the dusty, plaster-covered tile floor.

He really should not even be here. Were it not for this General Staff meeting, he would be right back with his sons and daughter, his son-in-law to be, and others searching for a single crazed officer who looked to ruin the peace countless millions fought, bled, and died to earn. To think his own eldest son could do this was rather surreal, and for such dogmatic, ideological reasons! To think that he would target their dearest family friend and his own daughter's fiancé!

Piotr Nikolayevich looked up, and saw Roza keeping watch, her TT-33 pistol holstered. Even though both she and Nadia had targeted Renton, and in any other circumstance they would likely sent his whole family away to Siberia under the dark of night, they had proven themselves loyal and brave. He had to wonder how they even were secret policemen to begin with. There was a time when he was often hassled at his office with questions. Questions regarding his relationship with the Thurston family.

His friendship with a pair of Americans was a source of suspicion. He managed to avoid the ire of the Interior Ministry before and throughout the war, but who was to say if it came to an end once Japan was defeated?

What's more, with the division among the General Staff, and the growing suspicion of the Western Allies in Moscow, the environment was ripe for a new conflict. One that could leave him and his family cast out, and Renton Thurston a target once again. This had to be avoided. They could not afford a new conflict, after losing countless millions in the last.

Around the corner came his son, Vladimir. He was smartly dressed in a pristine uniform, better fit for a ceremonial hall than in a half-demolished city opera house.

"General Novikov," Vladimir started, "General Chuikov and the others—"

"Volodya, please," Piotr Nikolayevich gently rebuked, "when it is just us, there is no need for that."

"…Father, the entire staff is waiting for you, now."

The old soldier and veteran nodded, and rose slowly, reaching for his pipe and a bag of tobacco. Roza took that as her cue, and accompanied the two of them up the stairs towards the main stage. Vladimir had some reservations about what was to come from this meeting, as Piotr Nikolayevich did.

"What's the feeling amongst everyone?" the old father asked, stuffing tobacco into his pipe.

"Tense, to say the least. Especially between Marshals Zhukov and Konev." (A/N: Ivan Konev (1897-1973): A prominent Soviet general and later Marshal of the Soviet Union who led Red Army forces in World War II. He is particularly well-known for his participation at the Battle of Kursk, the Lower Dnieper Offensive, and the Battle of Berlin, although his forces did not raise the flag over the Reichstag.)

"Over what?"

"Everything…" Piotr Nikolayevich's gaze seemed to strike him deep. "…Berlin, the British and Americans, what the best course for Comrade Stalin is…"

"They're expecting an answer from the Premier. Another battle in their rivalry. I suspect we won't get one, though."

"Every time I see them, they always argue about who took Berlin. I don't like either of them."

"No one does. That's why they're good at their jobs." He lit a match at lowered it into the pipe. "That, and staying in Stalin's good graces."

"What will you tell them, Father?"

"The truth." Vladimir sighed and shook his head wistfully, smelling the hope from his father's pipe.

"Neither of them will want to hear it."

"It's either they hear it, or we face a fight greater and longer than the one we just won."

They reached the door of the main theater, and the two men turned to each other. Roza opened it, but Piotr Nikolayevich had one final thing to give to his son. A gentle kiss on both cheeks. Even though both had fought as soldiers, and the father was his son's superior, family still counted for something.

"Let's hope for the best, my son."

Inside the theater, a ring of chairs sat in the center, facing the stage. It was here that many household names were found, chatting and murmuring to each other. Names which blazed a trail across the steppes of Russia and Ukraine, through the forests of Belorussia and Poland, over the Carpathian Mountains, and to the cities and fields of Germany. Names which inspired awe in the hearts of friends and struck fear in the hearts of enemies.

While Roza stood guard outside the door, and Vladimir stayed close to his father, General Vasily Chuikov rose from his chair to greet his old friend and comrade.

"Piotr," he said smiling softly as he shook his hand, "it's good to see you. How is Thurston?"

"He is alright for now. His group will be joining us tomorrow morning. I'll explain everything later."

"Comrade General Novikov," Marshal Zhukov hailed, "so glad you could join us. Please, sit down."

Piotr Nikolayevich sat down on a wooden chair next to Chuikov, and the council of household names began. A clean-shaven man with brown hair combed to the left, his uniform decked with numerous medals and citations, leaned forward and cleared his throat.

"Comrades, we shall begin with a status update. With regards to troop transfers to the East, a further 30,000 troops have been transferred from Belarus and East Prussia. They will be arriving in Siberia before the month is out."

"Comrade Marshal Vasilevsky," Piotr Nikolayevich asked, "how long do we have to declare war on Japan?" (A/N: Aleksandr Vasilevsky (1895-1977): Another prominent Soviet military commander during the World War II, and later served as Chief of General Staff of the Red Army. In that position, he planned and coordinated many decisive Soviet offensives from the Battle of Stalingrad to the offensive of East Prussia and the capture of Konigsberg (modern-day Kaliningrad). He would later lead the Soviet invasion of Manchuria against Japan in the closing weeks of the war.)

"The Yalta Conference in February stated we should begin operations no later than three months after Germany's surrender. We have until August."

"How many troops we will likely need to defeat the Japanese in Manchuria?" Chuikov interjected.

"I would say at least 750,000, given Japanese troop levels."

"Perhaps I can loan you some of my men. If they took on Hitler's best, I'm sure they can handle the Japs easily." Vasilevsky smiled lightly.

"Noted, General Chuikov. Moving on, what is the status amongst the occupation forces now? Marshal Zhukov?"

Zhukov wiped his face and sighed deeply.

"A few of my men were killed when they cornered an SS detachment outside the city. It seems there are still some fascists who don't want to accept defeat."

"Noble, but futile," a marshal sitting next to Zhukov spoke. "Holdouts like those should not be our primary concern." Vasilevsky raised an eyebrow.

"And what _should_ be our primary concern, Marshal Konev?"

Marshal Ivan Konev, a stocky man with beady eyes and a bald shaved head resembling a ripe pumpkin, filed away some papers he had in his hand and addressed all in the room. Out of the corner of his eyes, Piotr Nikolayevich could see Zhukov, a seething rage hidden in his blank, intent gaze.

"If we withdraw too many troops from Europe, there will be problems. Elections will soon begin in Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia and elsewhere. Our comrades there will need the security to ensure their victory."

"Our comrades?" Piotr Nikolayevich repeated. "You mean other communist parties?"

"Of course, that's who I mean! We must do everything to ensure that whatever governments come into Eastern Europe, they will be friendly to us, and provide the buffer we need between us and the West."

"Due respect, comrade Marshal, but I hardly think Poland or Hungary will want to fight with us after this war. After destroying the German war machine? They would not dare to stand against us!"

"They may look to the British and Americans for protection in that case."

There was a murmur among the General staff, and Piotr Nikolayevich felt his throat tighten. He looked behind him and saw Vladimir in the corner, next to Roza. Immediately his thoughts shifted to the future of his family, of Vladimir, and most especially of Renton and Eureka. They deserved a future of peace and friendship after this awful war. After the defeat of Nazi Germany, he would think that these men would want to fight the common enemy that still posed a threat to all of them. Britain and America were not the enemies. At least, he didn't view them as such.

"Were it up to me," Chuikov said, his voice like a rock, "we would focus our efforts on defeating Japan swiftly. The British and Americans will need our help in that effort."

"I fought the Japanese at Khalkin Gol," Zhukov observed. "They will fight hard and fanatically, and their troops are battle-hardened. General Eisenhower and I spoke once about it, and even now, they are still digging in their heels. Without our help, the Americans may be in for a hard slog, on the level of what we faced against the Germans."

"Be that as it may, Marshal Zhukov," Konev interjected, "you cannot deny that the British and Americans have now become a credible threat! We will need the buffer between them to ameliorate that."

"I see no threat," Piotr Nikolayevich said simply. "Where is the logic in aggravating the Western Allies? What on earth will we gain from subduing half of Europe?"

"Power. Power in Poland, in Hungary, and in the Balkans." Piotr Nikolayevich scowled, seeing the foolishness in such a claim.

"Poland hates Germany as much as we, and they will never accept domination from anyone! Hungary is full of Catholic Magyars! Let them keep it! And the lands of the Balkans are not worth the fuel of a single T-34! We should finish this war and rebuild everything we have lost from it; that means defeating Japan."

Konev and other generals, even Marshal Vasilevsky, had suspicions and eyebrows raised at the last allegation. While General Piotr Nikolayevich Novikov was undoubtedly a capable soldier (he would not have gotten this far otherwise), but his loyalties were always suspect. His connections to Renton Thurston and his softness towards America brought many questions. Vasilevsky raised one.

"Comrade General Novikov, are you saying these things because you genuinely believe them, or because your future son-in-law is an American?"

It was at this moment when Vladimir, who had been quiet and stoic throughout the meeting, felt a fire in his belly and stepped forward. Anger and resentment bubbled up from his boots to his head.

"Due respect, comrade Marshal, I understand our countries have differences, but that does not mean—!"

Piotr Nikolayevich looked askance at his son over his shoulder, and his eyes narrowed. A puff on his pipe and a scrunch of his goatee gave all the message his son needed. The young major stopped, and lowered his head in deference. He had to hold his peace, lest he suffer as well.

"I speak because I care for my children, comrade Marshal," Piotr Nikolayevich said resolutely, his eyes still on his son. "I say what I say because I want a future for them."

He returned to the council, and opened his heart like a book, with words spilling forth that spoke of hope, fear, and the paternal concern innate in all fathers.

"Comrades, we fought through a terrible and brutal war. I hardly think it wise for us to engage in such a debacle again. We would do well to remember that our country came within a hair's breadth of losing more than once. For the sake of our children, we must seek peace with the West."

"Now is not the time to appease our future enemies," Konev insisted.

"We defeat our enemies when we make them our friends. If we cannot reconcile our differences with the United States, we should at least build a peace that will ensure that such a war as this never happens again."

The conference was left in silence, and the reactions were as varied as the members of the animal kingdom. Konev's pumpkin-like head was contorted with a dour glare, while Zhukov looked on in a mixture of awe and apprehension. Vasilevsky and Chuikov looked on with interest piqued, and Chuikov nodding his head. The opinions of the General Staff were clearly divided.

"I admit," Zhukov said at last, "neither comrade Stalin nor any member of the Politburo are eager for further conflict. Our country has suffered enough, and we cannot wage war in perpetuity."

"Then you agree, comrade Marshal?"

"In this case, I would say—"

A series of rapid pops emanated from outside the doors, and all heads suddenly whipped around. Vladimir and Roza's minds, indeed everyone's minds, were no longer on the meeting or on the future of Soviet-American relations, but on what could be happening outside.

"That sounds like gunfire," Vladimir breathed ominously. "What the hell is going on?"

"This can't be…" Roza thought aloud to herself. "Deckard said it would take a few days…!"

She pressed on her communicator and spoke hurriedly.

"Can anyone read me? What's happening out there?" A short crackle of static preceded a panicked voice ringing in her ear.

" _We have intruders inside the opera house! They've breached the entrance!"_ Roza felt a cold ring of sweat soak her collar and addressed the General Staff.

"Comrades, I suggest you all get to the safe room now."

"What's happening, Agent 271?" Chuikov asked.

"There's no time to explain. You must leave now."

Piotr Nikolayevich stood up and took one last puff on his pipe, eyeing his son with concern.

"Volodya, will you be all right?"

"We can handle this, father. The worst thing to happen now is for you and the rest of the General Staff to die."

A moment of silence, and a silent battle was waged, with the forces well matched. The old general sighed, and stowed away his pipe.

"Let us go, comrades. The battlefield is no place for men like us."

"Lobby team, report!" Roza shouted over the communicator. "Report, goddammit!"

" _We need backup now! Someone—"_

The message cut off abruptly in more static, and Vladimir and Roza drew their pistols in preparation for a fight. The rest of the General staff quickly evacuated the performance hall and out an emergency exit door. Gunfire came closer and the duo stacked up on both sides of the door while Roza continued frantically trying to contact any personnel in the fray.

"Someone, come in! Who is attacking us? Come in, dammit!"

BOOM!

The door blew open and both were lost in a haze of dust and smoke, and rendered deaf with what sounded like church bells. Into the performance hall rushed men decked all in black, including knit masks that covered their faces leaving only their eyes and mouths exposed. Roza nailed the first two who entered the hall with shots to the back from her TT-33 pistol. Vladimir leaned over the door frame and fired, making a connection with another masked gunman.

Whoever these men were, they were clearly not diehard Nazi remnants. He had a sneaking suspicion there was something else at work. He smelled a familial rat.

With the doorway clear, and their eyes still burning from smoke and ash, Roza and Vladimir exited the theater and found the main hall a killing ground. Bodies of both Red Army soldiers and the masked men were strewn at their feet, and flanked them as they ran down the steps towards the lobby. A fight was already well under way, but who was attacking them? And why?

When they reached the bottom, the duo tried to assess what to do next.

"See if you can reach Ken-Goh."

"Ken-Goh, sir?"

"Captain Fyodorev. He may know what's happening."

Roza nodded and turned away for one brief second, and pressed on her communicator.

"Captain Fyodorev, come in. Do you read me?"

Before she could get an answer, another masked gunman rushed her and tried to throttle her to the ground. Thankfully, her years of service in the secret police hunting down enemies of the state and fighting Germans were not lost. Roza dug in her heels and maintained her upright stance, pushing back with all her might against the gunman.

It was enough for her to shove him away and then swiftly chop at the man's neck with the flat of her hand. He lost his footing, and stumbled, disoriented from the move. Roza finished him off with a hard kick to the stomach, which sent him down on the dusty floor.

Just as Vladimir was about to intervene and maybe interrogate the man, another gunman came from the shadows and opened fire on him. Vladimir's cheek was grazed and a thin red sliver emerged below his left eye, but it was nothing that could faze the veteran major. He opened fire with his Nagant revolver, but the gunman moved in quickly, swinging his PPSh-41 like a cudgel at his head. Vladimir dodged, and kicked the gunman's shins, knocking him down. Before he could open fire with his revolver again, however, the gunman threw a kick of his own to the stomach, sending the major skidding back and almost into Roza.

Roza, in the meantime, had her opponent on the ropes, who was tussling with her in a game of strength. He tried to wrench her TT-33 from her hand, but the Kazakh girl had more strength than he imagined. She flung her head back and smashed it against his forehead, putting him in a brief daze. That was enough for her to reach for her combat knife and stab him in the heart, finally killing him.

Seeing he was outnumbered, Vladimir's opponent quickly fled, and was about to call for reinforcements. But Vladimir would have none of it. Aiming his revolver with care, he fired three shots, and two connected with the chest cavity of the last gunman. As he died, and blood slowly crept across the tile floors, a group of soldiers dressed in dark brown fatigues came running. Vladimir quickly looked back at Roza, who was dusting off her uniform.

"You fight well, Agent 271," Vladimir said with a grin. Roza returned it.

"Well, I _am_ a security agent, comrade Major."

One soldier, a captain with a full mustache and a fur hat bearing the Soviet coat of arms, greeted Vladimir with a quick salute. Vladimir recognized him immediately.

"Ken-Goh, thank God you're here. What's the situation?"

"There are armed gunmen everywhere, Volodya," Ken-Goh panted. "We need to get the General Staff to the safe room quickly."

"They're already on their way. Any idea as to who these men are?"

"No clue. We haven't taken anyone captive who could tell us, and they're all masked."

"Maybe it's an SS remnant?" a female soldier holding a PPS-43 submachine gun wondered aloud. "There are still some fascist holdouts."

"Not likely, Natasha," a lieutenant refuted, running his fingers through his sandy blonde hair. "They always wear their old uniforms. These are different."

"We can ruminate about who they are later, Petya," Ken-Goh said, feeling antsy. "Volodya, we should go, now. It's not safe here."

Another burst of static came through Roza's communicator, and she listened in. More gunfire and a frantic voice.

" _Can anyone hear me?! We're pinned down in the dressing room with General Novikov! We need support immediately!"_ Vladimir's blood ran cold and any plan to leave was immediately dashed.

"How the hell did Father…?"

"It doesn't matter," Petya interrupted, cocking his PPSh-41. "Bail him out before moving out of here." All nodded and Roza responded to the distress call.

"We read you loud and clear, comrade. Backup is on the way. Hold tight. Out."

Just when it seemed they could leave, they were pulled back into the fray. Vladimir did not even hesitate, and gave his next orders to his old friends and comrades.

"Ken-Goh, you will come with me. Once we've secured General Novikov, we will evacuate as planned."

"Yes, sir. Comrades, to me!"

The small troop backtracked to the main theater, and found more bodies of armed masked men strewn around. A pungent smell of gunpowder, blood and metal almost left Vladimir choking as he led them up the stage and behind. The backstage lights were dimmed, and every shadow seemed an enemy waiting to spring out and surprise them. Behind the backstage, in the areas normally not traversed by a theatergoer, were dressing rooms, costume closets, and props kept in storage.

All of them had little idea of which way to go, but the sound of gunfire showed them the way. Ken-Goh hung a right and sprinted, and the rest of the detachment followed him. Vladimir wanted to lead the way, but Roza held him back.

"Sir, someone of your rank should not be at the front."

Two masked men, leaning around hallways corners, were in the business of fighting off another group of Red Army security guards, and totally unaware of the reinforcements behind them. Petya primed an RGD-33 stick grenade, and tossed it. It rolled over to the gunmen's feet, and detonated with a puff of white smoke and paltry dust. One gunman fell to his side dead, but the other was wounded in the right arm and leg. Rather than letting up, he continued firing on one bended knee.

Natasha, who had traded in her slow-firing scoped Mosin-Nagant for a rapid-fire PPS-43 submachine gun, lined up her iron sights with the other gunman and fired a short burst. Two bullets zipped through the gunman's torso, and quickly killed him. Three more Red Army soldiers arrived and rendezvoused with the small band outside the dressing room door.

Natasha tried to push the door open, but it wouldn't budge. On the other side of the door was muffled shouting and commotion, and Vladimir thought he could hear his father's voice. He smashed his gloved fist on the frame in frustration.

"Damn those bastards! They've barricaded themselves inside!"

"Should we ask them to surrender, comrade Major?" one soldier asked.

"I'll ask them once I've blown them all to hell! Does anyone have explosives on them?"

Petya reached into his rucksack and found a package of TNT to use, complete with a fuse. Natasha smiled knowingly at the sight.

"Ever prepared, aren't you, Lieutenant Sokolov?"

"Well, you know…"

Petya went to work and planted the explosives on the door while the others in the troop stacked up on either side waiting to breach. The shouting continued, and fists landed on the other side. A groan of pain, and a familiar sounding voice.

"Father…!" Vladimir whispered as the timer on the TNT ran out.

BOOM!

What was once the door violently broke into splinters and chunks of wood as the TNT exploded in a cloud of dust, cordite and plaster. There was no time to waste, and Ken-Goh and the other stormed in.

"Move, quickly!"

On the other side of the door was an elaborate dressing room, but it had long lost that purpose. The chairs had turned over, mirrors were broken, and the tables for makeup and facial paint were splintered into barricades. On the far end of the room two armed men hiding behind overturned chest of drawers, cosmetics strewn on the floor in a mixture of pink, beige and maroon. Petya spotted the hint of a general's uniform behind the right table, and did not have to think hard about who it was.

"Comrade General, keep your head down!"

Natasha reached for a grenade, but Ken-Goh stopped her. They could not afford harming the general as collateral damage. They had to kill these gunmen the old-fashioned way. One soldier tried to rush the gunman and leaped over Ken-Goh, but only succeeded in meeting his end with several bullets from a PPSh-41. Natasha ducked behind cover, and blind-fired over the side, suppressing their enemies.

That allowed Petya to move in, and quickly covered ground. Within seconds he was upon the two gunmen, and fired his submachine gun at one, peppering his chest with seven bloody holes. The remaining gunman swung his gun around as a cudgel, but Petya, a veteran of years of fighting and who knew combat better than anyone, quickly dodged with a duck of his head. He pressed the muzzle of his submachine gun on the last gunman and fired.

The effect was akin to a buzz saw, blowing the enemy's torso apart as if torn by a cyclone. A cough of blood on Petya's uniform ended the ordeal, and the room fell silent with heavy pants.

"Room's clear, comrade Major," Petya reported. "The general is secure."

Vladimir dashed in, almost a blur among the other soldiers as he came by his father's side. Piotr Nikolayevich had evidently been beaten and physically coerced, evidenced by the discoloration of his cheeks, and a bruise on the back of his neck. The old man's whole body shook, as if in anticipation of another strike from his captors. What did these fiends want with his father?

"Father, are you alright? Can you walk?"

"I can, Volodya," he said hesitantly, his voice trembling. "Thank you all, lads."

The young major gingerly helped his father stand, but there was no time to rest. The entire opera house was in a state of chaos, and to stay on longer than needed was to invite danger. They had to leave, and move to a safer, calmer place. After this, Vladimir thought, they would need to reconvene with Renton and the others. This attack may have a connection to Dewey's nefarious scheme.

As they came out of the disheveled dressing room, Roza reminded them of the direness of their situation.

"Comrade General Novikov, it's not safe here. We should get you out and to the safe house."

"What about the others?" Ken-Goh offered with concern. "Marshals Zhukov and Konev? Or General Chuikov? What about them?"

"Any updates, Agent 271?" Vladimir asked.

Roza paused and listened. There was nothing but crackly static. She tried to hail the units guarding them.

"I want a status report on the others in the General Staff. Are they alright? Over."

Again, nothing. The lack of a response was disconcerting, and it aroused Vladimir's suspicions. At the same time, if there was a chance to get them all out, he had to take it, even if the generals were evacuated piecemeal.

"Agent 271, you go with Father and get him to the safe house. I'll see to the others. Ken-Goh, Petya, Natasha, with me."

"Yes, sir!"

The group split up again, and Roza took on the duty to escort Piotr Nikolayevich out of the mayhem. Two other security guards joined her, and together they made it back to the center stage of the opera house. What was once their meeting hall, and the place where operas made by the likes of Wagner would play out for the enjoyment of Nazi bureaucrats, was now a knacker's yard. Bodies of gunmen and security guards lay everywhere in all sorts of grotesque positions, each betraying the circumstances of their deaths. At the very front of the stage, where the orchestra would normally reside, a mustachioed officer directed Roza towards the main exit.

"This place is a bloody mess," the officer grumbled. "We need to leave, now! Evacuate all the General Staff to the safe house! There's a car waiting outside the entrance."

"Sir, what about the others?"

"They will follow you, comrade, I assure you. Now go!"

Roza thought nothing of it, and let Piotr Nikolayevich lean on her as she gently led him down the steps of the stage. Even as they made their way across and to the entrance leading to the main lobby, the most basic questions remained unanswered. Who were these gunmen? Why did they attack the General Staff meeting? Most important of all, what were these men hoping to gain from taking generals like Piotr Nikolayevich Novikov hostage?

Such questions and many more would have to be answered another day, Roza thought. If they met up with Renton and his entourage, perhaps then they could find the answers they needed. Either way, the surprise attack and attempted hijacking of the General Staff meeting meant something else was at play, not merely Nazi holdouts trying to resurrect a dead cause.

These men wore masks, not swastika armbands. They dressed in black, not in field grey. And what was more troubling, they used Russian weapons, not German ones.

A different threat, one closer to all of them, had a hand in this ordeal.

Outside the entrance to the opera house, a sleek, clean black sedan awaited the weary general. Roza and the other soldiers kept a close eye around, searching for any more gunmen who would make a last attempt to take Piotr Nikolayevich hostage. There was nothing, however, except the darkness, the dim streetlamps and the humming of the sedan's engine.

Roza approached the rear car door first, while the two other security guards supported the general. The door lock clicked, and she gently swung it open, but found the back seat had a passenger waiting. A familiar face she wished she didn't have to see again.

He was an officer in his early 30s who, as indicated by his shoulder boards, held the rank of colonel. His wild grey hair was tied back behind his head in a short ponytail extending just below his neck, and two steely ice blue eyes stabbed Roza with an expectant fear. In one white gloved hand the officer held a TT-33 semiautomatic pistol, pointed right at her torso.

The muzzle flashed with yellow and what sounded like a loud firecracker left Roza deaf before feeling a sharp, piercing, burning pain in her stomach. She fell back onto the asphalt, blood hemorrhaging from her center. She heard two more shots, and her dilated eyes jumped to see the two security guards fall over, dead.

The colonel stepped out of the car, wearing a prideful grin on his lips. His boots echoed as he strode up to the general.

"I didn't expect to see you here, Father," the colonel greeted sardonically. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

"Dewey…" Piotr Nikolayevich breathed in a mixture of fear and disappointment. "It was you! _You_ did this!"

"Very good, Father! Your mind is still sharp after so many years in the field. Of course, I should not be surprised; you would not be a lieutenant general otherwise. So, then, I take it you know why I am here?" Piotr Nikolayevich's goatee wrinkled and his brow sank between his eyes.

"…yes, I do."

"Then you know what I want." The general bore his tobacco-stained teeth as he berated his prodigal eldest son.

"This is madness, Dewey! Come to your senses and put a stop to this, now! Haven't enough people died in this war already?"

"We fought this war to liberate Europe with the banner of socialism, and that destiny must be accomplished. Even if we must plant it on the summit of a mountain of ashes."

Dewey stepped closer, and his gloved hands grasped at his father's collar. While the father and son were locked in an intense stare, Roza reached for her holster, and unlocked it. If she could kill him here and now, it would bring an end to this suffering right quick. No more would have to die. Renton would not have to fight anymore.

Nadia would not have to fight anymore.

"I want the attack code message, Father," Dewey hissed. "And _you_ will give it to me."

Roza weakly grasped her pistol and raised it up. Her hand could not stop shaking, and her vision grew darker. No, not now. Not when there was a chance to finally put an end to it all. Even if she was to die, she had to at least stop all of this.

"You will never get it," Piotr Nikolayevich retorted. "I will not be responsible for another war."

Dewey smiled, as if expecting such a reaction from his father. His grip on Piotr Nikolayevich's collar loosened, and Roza cocked the hammer of her pistol. The pain almost blinded her as she struggled to line up the sights with Dewey's head.

"Every man has his price," Dewey said confidently.

Out of the shadows, a masked gunman shoved the general into the car, and Dewey promptly followed…before stopping and facing Roza.

Roza Aliyeva tried to squeeze the trigger, seeing now as the time. But Dewey was far ahead of her, and nonchalantly grinned. His pistol's muzzle looked right at her face, and he fired. Another shot of pain zapped her body with the force of an electric shock, and she lost all her senses. Her vision faded to black, and she heard these final words.

"Find the American."

* * *

 **A/N: What a battle, and what a twist of events. Things are really on the precipice of falling apart, if our friends don't act quickly. Let's hope things go well next chapter. Also I have a bit of news regarding the writing: as of now, I just finished the final chapter, and I think all of you are going to like it. The way things are looking, the last chapter will be posted at the end of this month (April 30th).**

 **When it's done, I will be addressing in full what happens afterward. And while no one seems to care about the series anymore and I don't get as many reviews as I used to back in the day, I do not regret taking this on. It's been a fantastic experience and I've met so many fine people along the way.**

 **Until next time, guys.**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Hope everyone is having a great Easter Sunday! The ambush really set back our team of friends, and Dewey is getting ready to finally put his plan into action. All the pieces he needs are in place, except for one. We're now in a race against time, and our friends better get moving.**

 **So with that happy note, here is the next chapter for you all to enjoy!**

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen**

 **July 2** **nd** **, 1945**

 **Warsaw, Poland**

The gentle rhythm of Renton's deep breathing was a sweet melody for Eureka Novikova as she lay on a cot in an abandoned apartment in Warsaw. In the aftermath of a distressing duel with Renton's old nemesis, his subsequent suicide, the gruesome betrayal of their so-called "observer" Stepan Pozharsky, and the countless horrors witnessed in the laboratory in the Polish woods, this moment of respite was precisely what Eureka needed.

Everyone was apprehensive about Piotr Nikolayevich and Vladimir leaving for a General Staff meeting, but in the end, Renton and Eureka desperately needed time away from everything, no matter how brief. Much of their time was spent together in their personal quarters, beneath the dusty sheets of their cot. His nerves all but shot from his final battle with Ilya Chertov, Renton found succor in Eureka's touch, her warmth, and her calming words. Eureka, fraught with worry about the safety of her father and her older brother, likewise felt at ease in Renton's arms. The games they played when alone seemed to wash away all the toxicity that plagued them in the woods.

Her snowy grey eyes turned their gaze up to him, resting calmly with one arm around her shoulder, hardly covered by her silk nightgown. His bare and toned chest provided a ready pillow, but it did little to lull her to sleep. Ever since her father and brother left for Berlin, she found it harder to drift off. Even the sensual touch of Renton did not seem to assuage her insomnia. The most she could do was stare into his face, revel in his hands subconsciously exploring her body, and whisper soft words to him. Words that, in his deep sleep, he could not answer.

"Rentoshka," she whispered to the darkness, "what on earth are we doing here? We should be in Germany, with Father and Volodya."

Her only answer was a deep sigh from Renton, his fingers lightly reaching for the strap of her nightgown.

"Dewey will have made it to Germany by now," Eureka thought aloud, fearfully. "He is likely putting the final touches on his scheme. So why? Why are we still in Warsaw?"

His hand traveled down, gliding over his sides and tickling her ribs. She suppressed a girlish giggle at the sensation. What could Renton be dreaming about?

"We should have heard from Father today. He called yesterday and before. Did something happen?" She grasped at their blanket, and pulled it over, feeling a sudden chill. "Renton, skazhi mnye, shto vsyo budyet kharasho." (A/N: Renton, tell me that everything will be alright.)

As if to assuage her fears, his hand gently rubbed her side. A tickle ran up her body, and brought a soft smile to her face. Even when in the sweets of sleep, even without words, Renton could reassure her. But that was not the extent of his inadvertent movements, as his fingers curled around the hem of her gown and gently pulled it up. Her cheeks burned a light pink as she sensed his fingers trace around her undergarments and light her skin afire. His sense of romance was obviously not limited to being awake. She softly laughed at the sensation, uplifted that her fiancé did not seem fazed by their situation.

"If you're…ooh…like this now," she wondered aloud, gazing at his face, "I wonder how you…ooh…will be on our wedding night."

She lightly kissed his chest, which elicited a murmur from his lips. But before she could see what more she could do with him lost in sleep, a sound broke her bliss and snapped her back to the paranoia and apprehension that held her in a stranglehold moments before.

 _RRRRRING! RRRRRING!_

A telephone sitting on a side table across the room erupted in a metallic buzz. Eureka almost screamed in surprise at the sound, thinking for a moment it was an enemy attack. The telephone vibrated slightly with each ring, and only sunk Eureka's mind deeper and deeper into that fear. The fear of bad news. The fear that they would be dragged back into the inferno again.

Renton mumbled and groaned as he stirred. How late was it? Who could be calling at such an hour? Was it Piotr Nikolayevich, or Vladimir? Or someone else entirely? And why call them, when they could easily call Nadia, or Holland?

His green eyes inched open, and cast an annoyed glance at the phone, continually ringing.

"Goddammit," he muttered, "What time is it?" Eureka tapped him on the shoulder with anxiety

"Don't just lie there. Answer it."

He groaned again, looking back at Eureka. He found to his embarrassment that his hand was resting on her backside. The hem of her nightgown had inadvertently rolled up, and he was quick to avert his eyes, finding a better gaze on her face. Her concerned face.

"It's too late at night, Eureka. Just let it ring."

"But what if it's important? It could be Father or Vladimir, calling for help."

He had nothing to say, and only writhed on the bed, not wanting to get up. He could not wait for the day when he did not have to answer calls at all hours of the night, did not have to worry about the next battle and about assassins and dark plots. If he only he could get back to sleep.

"I was having a good dream, too…"

Eureka pouted towards her stubborn beau. There was no time to get comfortable, especially not now. Who knows what might happen? Who knows what might have transpired at that meeting? They had to answer that phone. They had to know

"Renton Thurston," Eureka said, her tone hard and commanding, like an officer with an insubordinate soldier.

He saw an infant fire in her grey eyes, growing hotter with every successive ring of the phone. He shrank deeper, almost disappearing beneath the blanket. With much effort, he slid one leg out, and rested his bare foot on the dusty floorboards. But before leaving the comfort of their cot, he said,

"I'll get that phone, but when I'm back, I'd like something in return."

"Such as?"

His hand crept under her nightgown, and ran up her spine while he leaned in and gently kissed her cheek.

"Let me feel you again." Eureka blushed lightly and turned her gaze away from Renton.

"We'll see."

"I'll take that as a yes."

He struggled to get up, the phone's ringing now echoing in his ear. He groaned as he stood up from his bed and stumbled over in the dark to the table. The vague outline of the phone vibrating was hard to make out. One hand reached for the receiver, and Renton coughed before saying in a tired, gravelly voice,

"Hello?"

" _Renton, is that you?! What on earth took you so long to answer?!"_

Renton instantly recognized the voice at the other end of the phone. It was Vladimir, Eureka's brother.

"Volodya? Sorry about that. I was sleeping and—"

" _Forget it. That doesn't matter now."_

Eureka stood up in the bed, her grey eyes now wide and the apprehension pulsing through her veins. It was a call she wanted to hear, but the lateness of the hour seemed to betray troubling news.

"What's going on over there, my friend?" Renton asked, still trying to stay awake. "We didn't get any message from you today. Is something wrong?"

" _Dewey attacked the General Staff meeting and took Father. He is gone."_

Renton's senses activated and any fatigue he had was zapped out of him by that revelation. It was no wonder no calls were received! They must have been fighting for their lives when Dewey came! As much as he knew the respite was temporary, he never would have thought Dewey would make such a bold move, and would threaten his own father.

"What…how?! Are you okay?! How did he even get through?! What about your security? What about Roza? Is she okay?"

" _I'm fine. I don't know how I'm alive, to be honest. As for Agent 271…she died. Dewey killed her. None of us know how Dewey managed to get in; there must have been a mole in the security detail. Rentoshka, you need to get everyone over here right now. I don't know how long Father may last."_

"What do you mean?"

" _Father has the code message for all Soviet forces in Germany to cross the Elbe River and attack the Western Allies. That's what Dewey really wants, Renton. It's the only piece he needs to start his war and use his uranium bomb. Vremya doroga, moy drug. Miy dolzhny dyelat' shto-to tepyer'."_ (A/N: Time is running out. We need to do something now.)

"I'll get everyone up and moving. We'll catch the next train to Berlin. Hang on until then."

" _Hurry."_

The phone call ended, and Renton looked back to Eureka, who was now sitting on the side of the bed, her short hair uncombed and her eyes glistening in the darkness. Her lips trembled, along with her breathing as he sighed.

"Looks like our little alone time will have to wait. There's been trouble in Berlin."

"What kind of trouble?"

"Dewey took your father. Roza is dead, too."

Eureka gasped in shock, and almost fainted. She was right to be suspicious but she never in her deepest and darkest fears expected something like this. Her own brother had turned on them, and was willing to take their own father hostage for his sinister agenda. Renton did not even have the words to console her as he went for his tunic and trousers. Time was of the utmost essence, and their window was closing fast.

"Hurry up and get dressed. We're taking the next train out of here."

He sighed and grasped at his Mosin-Nagant rifle.

"I don't think we're coming back."

»»»»»

 **July 3** **rd** **, 1945**

 **Soviet-controlled sector of Berlin, Germany**

Dewey's surprise attack and disruption of the General Staff meeting was kept a secret from the Western Allies by the Soviet authorities. Why? Vladimir could not say. It probably stemmed from a deep, abiding fear among the staff. For them, Germany may be vanquished, but a new enemy was rising. It was not a sentiment with which he felt comfortable, to put it mildly.

If his friendship with Renton was any indication, there was no reason for this growing suspicion of the West. The war was over, and they were too exhausted, too thinly spread, and had shed too much blood to engage in another. Instead, their nations should build a peace that would last. A peace that would ensure no war like this would ever come to pass again.

Vladimir's blue eyes jumped from one passenger car vestibule to another, looking for familiar faces. In retrospect, he wondered if they could have done anything to prevent this debacle, but there seemed to be little. Even if Renton and his team were here in Berlin at the time of the attack, they would have faced more problems. The security undoubtedly would have treated them with suspicion, or even accuse them of being spies. When Dewey launched his ambush, they likely would have been the first to be killed or detained, suspicions seemingly confirmed. It would have only been more chaos. And neither Vladimir nor anyone else under his command could afford more chaos.

"Volodya!" a familiar feminine voice called from behind him.

The young major spun around to be greeted by a tight embrace from his little sister Eureka. Her muffled cries into his brown overcoat provided an odd comfort as her arrival heralded everyone else's.

"Slava bogu…tiy zhiv…" she sobbed quietly. (A/N: Thank God…you're alive…)

"It's alright, Eureka," Vladimir assured his sorrowful sibling. "We will bring Father back. I swear it."

The dark brown-haired girl could only nod her head, unable to speak at that moment.

"Sorry we couldn't come sooner," Renton added as he came upon the two siblings. "There were almost no trains running."

"You're all here now, so no harm, no foul," Vladimir assured his friend, smiling with relief.

"So, where has Dewey taken Piotr Nikolayevich?" Renton asked.

Vladimir ushered them all to follow him, and follow him they did. Out of the station and onto the streets of eastern Berlin, just as dawn was breaking over the city. It was a strangely beautiful, uplifting sight to see morning light casting a glow over the bombed out, ruined flats of the capital, but the news of Vladimir was anything but uplifting.

"The few gunmen we took prisoner aren't giving us anything, and we're starved for leads. Rentoshka, you still have that nurse you captured in the facility?"

"You mean Mischa? She's still with us, yes."

"Get her. She might know something if she worked under Dewey. Plus, there is someone she will want to see."

An apartment with Soviet flags mounted outside the door signified a makeshift barracks, and upon entering, the entire troupe were greeted with the cacophony of conversation, singing, and an accordion playing. Occupation troops still deserved a celebration or two after a hard-won victory.

"Brother," Holland asked Vladimir frantically, "when did Dewey attack you and father? How did he know where you were? What's he planning to do to our Father? How do we stop Dewey?!"

"One thing at a time, little brother. He attacked us two days ago, and truth be told, I still don't know how Dewey managed to find us. My guess is we had a mole in our security team. As for what he wants with Father…"

Vladimir's gloved hands contracted into tight, frustrated balls. The shock of their sudden loss was still raw, and hard to reconcile.

"Colonel Novikov wants the radio code message for all Soviet forces to attack the Western Allies," a familiar, feminine voice finished, "and General Novikov is the only man who knows it."

Vladimir looked to his left and saw sitting on a table, cleaning her sniper rifle, Sergeant Natasha Badanova. His old friend, neighbor, and classmate. Her black hair was tied back in a ponytail while her dark eyes were focused solely on her work. Seeing her was a surprise in and of itself for everyone, but Renton and Eureka most of all.

"NATASHA! It's you!"

"It's been one hell of a long time, hasn't it, comrade Captain?" Natasha quipped, smiling as Eureka ran up and hugged her.

"But, if you're here," Renton managed, "…then that means…"

A calloused hand rested on Renton's shoulder, and spun him around to show the familiar, grimy face of a sandy blonde-haired lieutenant with sharp sky blue eyes. His old playmate, the neighborhood thrill seeker, and one of the bravest men he ever knew. Petya Sokolov.

"Good to have you back, comrade Captain," Petya said, smiling wryly. "We must make up for lost time."

Renton was about to embrace his old friend when another familiar face emerged. By Petya's side came a scruffy-looking man with brown hair and strange red eyes. He sported a wide grin, looking ready to crack a joke, despite the grime and dust that coated his uniform. Anatole Borodin, the machine gunner, muscle, and dear friend.

"And we have some recruits that have been dying to meet you," Anatole added knowingly.

They led Renton to a series of makeshift bunks while Natasha and Eureka finally broke their long embrace.

"I almost didn't recognize you without your long hair, Eureka," Natasha admitted, setting her rifle aside. "What's with the new haircut?"

"People tell me that a lot now," Eureka said, laughing. "I just wanted a new look, since so much has changed since I left Stalingrad. Especially now that Renton and I will be…" She blushed, and glanced at her boots.

"…married?" Eureka's head jerked up in surprise.

"You know?" Natasha laughed.

"Konyeshna, moya podruga! Renton wrote us about it often enough! I swear, sometimes it was all he could say. One time he couldn't decide the best time to propose! 'Should I do it before I leave for France or after?'"

Eureka's blush grew redder, and Natasha wrapped one arm around her old friend and classmate's shoulders. They were firmer, and the short haircut revealed how broader they had grown. She was now a woman, like herself.

"So, you're finally getting married. Who'd have thought? Our little quiet maid of Stalingrad is finally a lady."

"And with your crush, no less," Eureka added, smiling wryly. "Remember how often we used to fight over Renton?"

"Do I? We nearly got into fist fights just for his attention! Both Anatole and Holland had to hold us back and scold us both." Eureka laughed, the first time in a long time.

"Yes, those were the days."

"Save the reminiscing for later, ladies," Petya reminded them with a chuckle. "We have a general to rescue."

The two nodded, firmly.

"Roger."

Petya found an empty bunk to set his weapons and supplies down, and others joined. Ken-Goh, the mustachioed commander of First Company and Renton's old right hand, found a spot by Petya, and Mischa, the red-haired Polish nurse who was forced to work under Dewey, was wide-eyed at the sight of her old superior.

"Lieutenant! Captain! I didn't think you'd still be here. The colonel said everyone was shipped home after the surrender."

"Good to see you again, Mischa," Petya greeted. "I wish that were the case, but someone has to watch over Berlin."

Ken-Goh leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and nervously picking at his mustache.

"Mischa, you're the only lead we have to find General Novikov. You worked under the colonel. Can you tell us anything that could lead us to them?"

Mischa glanced around, and all eyes, down to Eureka's uneasy grey orbs, were set squarely on her. She searched through the catalog of her memories and tried to recall any place, any at all, that Colonel Dewey Novikov may use to house prisoners.

"Even just a list of places can help us out," Natasha suggested.

"…there might be one place he could go," Mischa thought aloud.

"Please tell us, Mischa," Eureka encouraged, desperation peeking through her voice.

Mischa bit her lower lip, faced with traumatic memories of the place. One she worked in very early after the surrender, when Dewey and Dr. Deckard poured over tests and experiments to build the prototype uranium bomb.

"It was after we captured Doctor Deckard in Berlin, and just one day before the surrender. The colonel and the doctor went to this old castle near the Elbe river, west of Berlin. They ran some...tests there."

"What kind of tests?" Ken-Goh pressed.

"Tests to perfect Deckard's uranium bomb."

At that revelation, the four Red Army soldiers stood in horrified silence. It was bad enough that Dewey was looking to start another world war, just as an epoch of bloodshed was ending, but to use such a ghastly, destructive weapon?

"You're kidding me," Petya managed, almost breathless. " _That's_ what the colonel wanted with that doctor?"

"Fucking hell," Anatole cursed, reaching for a cigarette. "To think we went after that madman just to get some bomb. It's disgusting!"

"I knew was some shady business going on between them," Natasha thought aloud, horrified, "but…my God…!"

"I almost got killed because of the hunt for that damned thing," Holland recounted bitterly. "Dewey is not the only one that wants that bomb. Moscow wanted to get its hands on it."

"Everyone," Renton said, "if you find that bomb in the castle, I want you to dispose of it. No one can have a weapon that terrible."

Eureka looked up to Vladimir, who was grinding his teeth in apprehension and repressed frustration.

"Does this castle sound familiar to you, Volodya?"

"Da, it does. My battalion's last assignment was to seize an old castle that was used as a Wehrmacht headquarters a few miles short of the Elbe. We met up with some Americans after its capture. Now…"

His gloved fist pounded a wall, and almost shook the room.

"…he's going to use that place as his jump-off point to start his war with the Western Allies…it's just low!"

"He's not going to start any war, sir," Ken-Goh said resolutely. "We'll put a stop to him."

He stood up, and adjusted his greatcoat. Petya likewise stood at attention.

"Major, I swear to you we will get your father back, and that bomb will be destroyed."

Natasha was the next to rise, and clasped her fiancé and superior's hand.

"Leave it to us, Volodya."

Everyone's eyes turned to Anatole, who was in the middle of taking a puff from a cigarette. He looked around, somewhat confused at all the attention.

"What? I'm with you guys, any day of the week!"

That lightened the mood, as the room erupted in laughter at Anatole's slowness on the uptake. Eureka felt slightly more at ease, knowing that these brave souls, her dearest friends from long ago, were given the task to free her father.

"Mischa," Vladimir asked, "are you sure that this castle is where Dewey is?"

"I don't know of any other place he could go. After our time there, the colonel relocated all of us to Warsaw. To that laboratory in the woods."

"That's all the confirmation I need," Anatole said, flexing his fingers. "Let's find the bastard."

"Yes, let's," Renton said, reclaiming his rifle and shouldering it. "There's a lot more at stake now. We must make every second count."

They filed out of the bunk room and made for an armory, but Renton was barely across the threshold when he felt something hard bump into his side.

Renton almost fell over, but caught himself on a wall where the plaster had begun to flake off. He found who ran into him: a young Red Army soldier, perhaps no older than he was, with auburn hair nestled beneath his service cap and green eyes looking on apologetically at him.

"P-prostitye, sir!" he said hastily. "I was just trying to find Lieutenant Sokolov. I didn't see you."

"It's fine," Renton said, pulling himself up. "I should have been looking."

"No, no, the blame's all on me," the soldier insisted. "I should've watched where I was going. Um, do you know where the Lieutenant might be?"

"I was just with him. Come with me."

The two men followed the crowd towards the makeshift armory, which was little more than a gathering of munitions crates and stacks of weapons in the courtyard of the apartment complex. Petya looked behind him to be sure everyone was with him, and spotted Renton's new tagalong.

"There you are, Dmitri! I wanted to introduce you to Renton, but I guess you beat me to it."

Dimitri looked back at Renton and then Petya. His face went through a phase of confusion, and quickly to excitement.

"Wait, what?"

"That's our Hero of the People you wanted to meet for so long!" Anatole quipped as he looked for a submachine gun. "The American Russian!"

Renton sighed tiredly at that moniker.

"I'm starting to hate that name now..."

"Y-y-you are Renton Thurston?!" Dmitri said excitedly. "The legendary American Russian?! Dear God, I'm feeling more of an idiot for running into you like that. It's an honor to meet you in the flesh!"

The younger boy wasted no time in shaking hands with the oak brown-haired boy.

"I am Private Dmitri Voronin. I've been with Petya and his crew for two years now."

"He was just a little pup when we got him," Anatole quipped, grinning. "He could barely aim a rifle properly."

"Since then," Natasha corrected, "he's been a great soldier. You've really come a long way, Dmitri."

The soldier blushed and tried to wave off the compliments.

"Comrades, please. I never would have survived with you!"

Renton smiled bemusedly. His actions inspired this boy, and gained him something of a cult following. It was akin to being a movie star, or a famous musician. Even if he felt all the praise undeserved, it was still uplifting to meet another fan.

"Thanks, Dmitri. But I didn't make it this far on my own. I got a lot of people to thank for that."

He pulled the young soldier close and pointed to his fiancée, who was busy stocking up on rifle ammunition.

"Especially that girl right there," he whispered. "She's why I came to Stalingrad to start with."

Dmitri and Renton chatted on through their weapons checks, gradually developing a friendship. The young soldier was entranced with his stories of travelling across the globe to fight the Germans, and how he came to love the girl he befriended in the immortal city of Stalingrad. Dmitri found that this legend, this "hero of the people," was no different from him, or from any common soldier for that matter. Renton treated Dmitri like he would any close friend, and for that, he was a greater hero to him.

»»»»»

 **Somewhere in eastern Germany**

A bright light shone in Piotr Nikolayevich's eyes, disorienting him for a few moments. Two masked men towered over him, one carrying a large metal pail. What the pail was for he did not know. As his vision slowly returned, the aged general saw a bright lamp shining down on him.

He sat tied to a wooden chair in a dingy room with stone walls and oak wood floors. He could not comprehend where he was, as he had been blindfolded and left in the dark for the entirety of his transfer. All he knew is why he was here, and what these men and their master wanted from him. Something he would die before giving.

"Lift your head," Dewey's voice commanded.

Piotr Nikolayevich sniffed, wondering how on earth his son could turn into a power-hungry warmonger. Always he tried to set an example for his children to follow. Always he tried to teach them how to be model Soviet citizens, how to be tolerant and understanding of others, and how to be compassionate. Was it something he did? Where did he go wrong? Why did he not see the signs sooner?

"Waterboard."

SPLASH!

A sheet of cold water snapped Piotr Nikolayevich's head up, coughing and gasping for breath. It was a common method used by interrogators to extract intelligence. He never liked the method himself, but it could get results. For better or for worse.

A brown rain cape came into his view followed by the blue riding pants of an officer. Piotr Nikolayevich's tired bloodshot eyes met with Dewey's ice blue ones, and a stern grimace was plastered on the colonel's lips.

"Father, there's an easy way to end this, and you know what it is. Just tell me what the radio code message is for attack."

The old general breathed tiredly, raggedly. Dewey stepped closer and leaned down, his face mere inches away from his father's.

"Don't you want to go home and be with everyone?"

"You're going to kill them all, anyway."

"You don't know that."

"I'm your father, Dewey! Don't presume to tell me what I don't know about you! What you're asking of me is to condemn Volodya, Holland, and everyone else to an early grave."

"You misunderstand me, Father. I am doing this _for_ my family."

He turned away and nodded to the masked man carrying the water pail as he strode past.

"Again."

Another splash filled the general's nostrils with water, and he choked. He sometimes wondered how prisoners could handle such torture; it was hard enough to be subjected to it.

"I can do this all night," he vowed. "We have plenty of water."

"For the last time," Piotr Nikolayevich panted, "I will not be responsible for another conflict. I will die before I ever surrender the attack code message."

Dewey folded his hands behind him, and tapped his boot. Piotr Nikolayevich thought he could see a twitch in his shoulders. The colonel looked over and a smirk crept over his lips.

"I see. This is what we are facing, comrades. Stubborn old men who are hopelessly clinging to the past. Father, if only you could understand: another conflict is coming, regardless of what you or I do or don't do. We defeated fascism, but there is another evil that is facing us."

He swung around again, his rain cape forming a whirlwind around his uniform. Dewey's eyes seemed to entreat his father as he came close again, not minding the small pools of water on the floor.

"The next enemies are the capitalists and imperialists. The British and Americans. The West. Our fight to defeat Germany has only sown the new battle lines on the continent. I don't want to see this world plunge into another war, perhaps longer than the last. Do you?"

"You know I don't. So why not put an end to this? Why must we fight? We can destroy our enemies when we make them our friends." Dewey's smirk was wiped away and a grimace replaced it, his brow sunk deep between his eyes.

"Like when everyone in our family made friends with an American?"

"Yes, exactly. My daughter and Renton are living proof that we can live side by side."

"If you genuinely believe that, Father, then you are a fool. Just like everyone else."

The colonel kneeled, and one gloved hand held his father's chin, forcing the general to look nowhere else but at his eldest prodigal son.

"I'll let you in on a secret, Father. Before the Red Army invaded Germany proper, one commissar from the NKVD told me that I and our family would not survive comrade Stalin's next purge. It was at that moment that I swore I would restore and protect our family's dignity. I would put a bullet in that Yankee boy's brain if it meant saving us all from death."

Piotr Nikolayevich offered Dewey a disgusted and unconvincing frown. To think that Renton Thurston was the reason behind all this…!

"So, that's it, is it? Is that your grand magnum opus of a plan? Kill a young boy to save a single family? Kill one person to save a million? To ruin everything the Allies stood for altogether?!"

Piotr Nikolayevich roughly shrugged off Dewey's grip on his chin, tired of such ugly pride from his own son.

"Open your eyes, son! What did Renton Thurston ever do to you that the Germans didn't?! That boy has been nothing but the light my daughter and sons needed during the dark times of their lives! If anything, he saved our family. He gave my daughter a reason to live, when she thought all hope was lost."

Dewey stood up, his face struck with disappointment and shock. What did he have to do to make him see? What did he have to show to make him understand? One gloved hand rested on his pistol, and he spoke. Calmly. Coldly.

"My eyes are wide open, Father. I've seen our nation ravaged by barbarians and slavering foreign devils. I've seen bureaucrats forsake Party principles and shake hands with British and American dogs. That boy you praise so highly is the reason we will all be shot by the secret police or worse when the next purge comes! WHY CAN'T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?!"

A black boot swept across the floor and kicked over the chair with a loud 'thunk!' and sent the general falling over into a pool of water. Piotr Nikolayevich groaned in pain and looked up at his son, fearing that he would shoot him then and there. Instead, Dewey only sighed resignedly.

"If you will not protect our family, then I must. That boy is a cancer, so he must be cut out, and my plan will do that." Piotr remained assertive and unyielding.

"Renton will not go down quietly, Dewey. He's not alone." Dewey scoffed, and cast a glance at the two masked men.

"Once more."

Another sheet of cold water did not deter Piotr Nikolayevich. The general was tougher than that, after surviving political purges and four years of war against a determined enemy. All that remained was his heavy breathing, and a long, hard glare at his eldest son. It was clear that he would not yield so easily. Getting the codes would take more time.

"Of course, he won't," Dewey said, smiling, "but that doesn't mean I can't try. I won't be outwitted by a bunch of children."

He spun on his heel and exited the room, saying to the two masked men.

"That's enough for now. Put him back in his cell."

* * *

 **A/N: The truth is at last revealed. In all honesty, you can hardly blame Dewey for what he's doing, even if he is going to extremes; the Soviet regime was brutal to any it deemed subversive or counterrevolutionary. It was not unique to Stalin, either, and has a history going back to the days of Lenin and Trotsky. Not towing the party line meant running afoul of the authorities. Totalitarianism destroyed and continues to destroy many lives.**

 **We will see the response of Renton and his friends next week. Let's hope they all succeed, whatever they plan to do!**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Here we are in the final stretch. General Novikov is being held captive, and there is little time left before Dewey puts his plan in motion. There are also some surprises that you may recognize from the anime in here, if you pay attention. But fighting does not come without its share of losses so a warning to all who read this and the future chapters: character death is present here.**

 **With that out of the way, here is the rescue operation.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

 **July 5** **th** **, 1945**

 **Soviet-occupied Berlin, Germany**

Sergeant Talho Yukieva had not been feeling well since her last tryst with Lieutenant Holland Novikov in Warsaw, and every morning found her inside a bathroom stall, emptying bile out of her system. It occurred with such regularity that the young sergeant could not believe it was mere indigestion or some stomach virus. Something else was happening.

When news broke of Dewey's ambush and kidnapping of Holland's father, Talho chose to keep quiet, lest she slow down her squad or derail a rescue operation. However, now that that power had been delegated to the veterans of First Company and Vladimir, the burden seemed to have been lifted. For better or for worse.

She uneasily staggered from the bathroom stall in the apartment complex, filing past the older, more brazen and stubbly soldiers of the Red Army. When she saw the occasional female in uniform, she had to wonder if they had to deal with this while on the frontlines. If they did, what was their solution? But more importantly than anything, how was she to break the news to Holland?

Suddenly her chest felt constrained, and she leaned on the wall, panting for breath. Her uniform felt incredibly hot, and all she wanted in that moment was her bed and a few hours' sleep. Is this what her mother went through when she had her? How did her mother survive? Looking ahead she saw the doorway leading into another dormitory used by the squad of militiamen. Where Holland sat on his bunk, brooding and mulling over all that had occurred.

In the dorm, Holland tried his best to feel more confident, but it was a difficult task. It was great to see his older brother alive and unharmed, but the news of his father being held captive still left him raw. To think the oldest of the Novikov siblings would be bold enough to initiate such an attack! To think that Dewey would go so far as to attack the man who fathered and raised them!

Talho shuddered when she heard Holland's fist bang on the plastered wall with a 'thud.' In this moment, revealing the truth might be too much for him to handle. It was enough that his callous and aloof older brother was the source of all their troubles.

Who knows what he could be doing to their father right at this moment? Knowing Dewey, he would do whatever it took to force Piotr Nikolayevich to crack under the torture.

No, Holland would not let Dewey have his way. He will not allow the family to be torn apart and dragged into hell all over again. If anyone would sit his idiot brother straight, it had to be him.

Sighing deeply, the young ex-partisan and militia officer stood up, needing to find Talho. Her sickness concerned him, but he assumed it was an effect of the trauma from the Warsaw mission. Anyone would be sick to their stomach for several days after that horror. But upon turning the corner towards the bathroom stalls, he found her in a seemingly frailer condition than he thought.

Weakly leaning on the doorframe, the sergeant's hazel eyes seemed watery, and spittle from the latest expulsion of bile hung from her mouth like a fishhook on an angler's line. Her breathing was ragged, desperate, and all she could manage to say was,

"Hol…land…"

Her knees buckled, and the grey-haired Russian raced to his lover's side, catching her before collapsing. One arm curled below her bosom while another rested on her back, rubbing it soothingly.

"It's okay, Talho. I'm here."

Wordlessly, Talho thanked her beau, and allowed her to carry her back into the dorm, and set her down on her bunk. She tried to move on from that moment of frailty, keeping her question on the issues at hand.

"So, what's the latest?"

"Vladimir is going to take charge of the rescue operation. His men know the castle well, so they will go in."

"Those soldiers…do you know them?"

"Oh, I never told you about them, did I? Yes, they're all neighbors and classmates from Stalingrad. Renton served with them when he came back." Talho smiled weakly.

"It's good to know we have more people assisting us. I don't think we could do another mission on our own at this point."

"I doubt it, either. Any extra help is very much needed right now. In this way, we will have a better chance in rescuing Father."

An awkward silence joined the company of the couple, and Holland's concerns were elsewhere. The sickness of his subordinate and lover seemed more serious than just trauma if it left her weak-kneed. It could negatively affect all of them in future missions.

"Talho, you haven't felt well for a few days now. You didn't attend the last few briefings." Talho averted her eyes, knowingly.

"You're right."

"You want to talk about it? It'll help me try to understand what's wrong with you."

Not finding the strength to lie to her lover, Talho turned to Holland, scooting closer toward him. Even if it meant holding the squad back, holding _everyone_ back, he had to know. Now was the time.

"Promise me you won't lose it, alright?"

The girl swallowed hard, tasting a bitter remnant of bile from earlier. A sharp inhalation gave her the strength to drop a bombshell in four simple words.

"I think I'm pregnant."

At those words, Holland's blue eyes blinked, and grew three times their size. His jaw slackened at the revelation, and a tidal wave of questions crashed through his mind. How? When? For how long did she know? And what could they do now, knowing she carried another in her body? Being in harm's way was now doubly a risk, to her health and to the livelihood of their child.

"Jesus…how…why didn't you say something sooner?"

"I didn't want to scare you," Talho replied quietly. "Especially when your father was kidnapped…I thought it would be too difficult for you."

The officer sighed, and ran his fingers through his grey hair, sifting through any options they had for what to do now. It was one thing to imagine a life with Talho, but a life with a child…a life as a father…

"Well, now I can't take you with me," he said disappointedly. "If something were to happen to you…to both of you…" Talho anticipated the rest, and shook her head.

"Nyet."

"It's too dangerous to stay here," he insisted. "I want you to take the next train out of here and head back home. I'll have one of our squad members escort you."

"No, Holland!" Talho refused adamantly. "I can't leave now. Not after coming this far with you and the others. Do you want me to end up like those single mothers? I won't know how long I have to wait for you! Are there really any safe spaces to go right now? I think not."

She placed her hands over Holland's, her eyes showing steely resolve.

"I'll stay and fight to the very end. It's not just for myself, or our child. I want to fight for everyone in my family. For you. Your father. Vladimir. Renton and Eureka."

The young officer and ex-partisan only sat stunned. Any other woman would have taken the out he gave her. They would gladly take a shortcut and cut their losses short. Of course, he should not have been surprised, since Talho was no ordinary woman. Since the day he met her as a poor beggar with nothing to offer, she had shown herself to be brave, determined, and compassionate. There was truly no other woman like her in this world.

"We sure have a big family," he said half-jokingly.

"We sure do, don't we?" Talho chuckled.

Holland was drawn to Talho's center, and he rested his head on her stomach. Where their child, the fruit of their bond, was cradled and nursed. Yet another reason he had to fight to end this. To stop Dewey and stop any more bloodshed.

"I won't let anyone else die. We've lost too much already…"

Talho smiled lightly, and wrapped her arms around Holland's head, her fingers slightly combing over his ruffled hair. She had more than just a lover by her side; she had a new future, with more reason to fight for a peaceful world free from violence and fear.

»»»»»

Late in the night, out in a dimly-lit Berlin park, Renton and Petya sat huddled around a small bonfire. They had talked throughout the day and into the night, playing the game of catch-up that all long-lost friends play. War had changed them both, they found. Renton, who was naïve and aimless upon returning to Stalingrad, found purpose, direction and wisdom. Petya, who had a reputation as a brave, almost reckless soldier, now was a disciplined and capable field officer who commanded the respect of his men…and Renton as well.

"One time," Petya remembered, "Vladimir came to me with an offer to promote me to captain and serve as a staff officer. I told him no, in the end."

"Really?" Renton asked with a surprised expression. "What made you change your mind?"

"I did not want to leave my men, or Natasha. Plus, I can't stand office jobs."

Renton nodded with understanding. Even during his time in Stalingrad, the ash blonde wanted no part being promoted to higher ranks. Back then, all he had in his mind was rescuing Eureka.

"I see."

Renton watched the flames of the fire crack as the wind blew off the cinders. The young lieutenant's shadow stood prominently in the flickering light of the bonfire. The flames danced in his sky-blue eyes, and revealed the calluses of his hands. Hands that knew how to hold a rifle and throw a hard punch. As he glanced back over at his old friend and former commanding officer, manhood revealed itself amid the orange blazes.

"All of this conflict has cost us a great deal throughout the years. I wish it would just be over already. We have all lost so much."

"You're too right about that. I'm rather sick of it now, myself. Here we are, still in Berlin, a month after the surrender. Before this came up, I really truly thought the war was over." He smiled ruefully. "Natasha and I should be back in Stalingrad by now."

Renton looked away at the flames and returned his gaze to Petya.

"Tell me, my friend, what are your plans afterwards? Do you intend to rebuild Stalingrad and settle down with Natasha?"

"That's my plan. Marriage is first on my list. Beyond that, I think I'll get a job at the steel mill back home. Stalingrad will need plenty of steel for rebuilding. What about you, Rentoshka? You're finally going to marry Eureka, aren't you?"

Renton nodded firmly. It was his life's goal since he popped the question to her in Paris, almost one year ago.

"Yes. After we're married, Eureka and I will settle back in my old farmhouse. With my brother's help, I'm going to rebuild and expand it." Petya smiled lightly at that.

"You know, I never took you to be a farmer. I thought that you might be better as a teacher."

Renton scratched his head confusedly and sighed.

"Seriously? Someone told me that a while ago, too. What's up with that?"

"Your smarts kept you alive. I guess I'm not the only one who sees that."

They two young men laughed lightly. It had been a long while sine either of they shared a laugh. The bloodshed and violence had nearly stripped away any lighthearted moments of fun. After so many years at war, it was hard to remember moments like this. Of course, such moments of quietness and nostalgia were not meant to last for long. They still had to deal with a madman on the loose. A madman threatening to destroy the hard-fought and earned peace.

"So, about that rescue mission…"

Petya looked back to his friend, and saw how the war had aged him. A thin trace of a mustache hugged Renton's upper lip, almost transparent were it not for the fire. Dark lines of stress and hardship were etched under his eyes, which stared listlessly into space, as if searching for something. Just like Renton was always searching throughout this whole war. For his old friend and childhood love. For his past connections. For a purpose in a world without war.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with? I'd hate to have something happen to you and the others right after we just reunited."

Petya sighed, expecting such a concern from his old commander. Even back in Stalingrad, Renton went out of his way to stay on for as long as he could with First Company and do what he could. He almost lost sight of why he came in the first place back then, slipping into the madness which he vented on his enemies.

"Kapitan…"

"I've long lost that rank, Petya," Renton reminded him, his voice stonier than obsidian. "I'm not your 'kapitan,' and I'm not in your company anymore. But I'm still your friend, and we've only just gotten back together. So please, let me help you."

"You don't know the layout of the castle; my men do. My company captured that place just before the surrender. Do you want to get captured while stumbling around looking for General Novikov?"

Renton bit his lower lip in frustration, but he understood what his close friend was telling him.

"I just hate seeing you leave so soon. There must be some way I can help."

"Right now, someone needs your help more than me. Someone closer to you."

Renton stopped, and wondered who he was talking about, although he shouldn't have. It was Eureka's father they were rescuing, after all. She was distraught at the news, and he wondered if there was any strength left in her after his kidnapping. Even now, her depression drove her into isolation. She could not linger long at the last briefing and went to have her meal by herself.

"If you want to help me, Renton, you should be with your fiancée. She's hurting the most from all of this, and she doesn't need to be worrying about you, too, if you join the mission. You need to be there for her; leave the rescue to us."

As much as he wanted to protest, as much as he felt obligated to go, it would not help Eureka in the least. He and the others would just get in the way, despite good intentions. They still needed to rejuvenate after that fiasco in Warsaw. It was time for First Company to pitch in and contribute to the cause.

"You're right. She does need me, and we still need rest. But I fear what may happen to you."

"We've survived the war," Petya reminded him plainly. "A simple rescue mission is nothing."

"It won't just be a rescue mission if that bomb is being held in the castle."

The bonfire crackled at the word 'bomb,' and the Petya grimaced. The knowledge that Franz Deckard, that madman of a scientist, was captured only to be put to work by the Colonel to develop some superweapon made his blood boil. It was not just Commissar Pozharsky that deceived his comrades; from the very start, Dewey had more nefarious ulterior motives. A glance into the flames conjured ghastly images from Berlin. Images that Petya, and indeed, all the soldiers of First Company, would rather forget.

"You know," Petya muttered, slight resentment in his voice, "we were supposed to support the final assault on the Reichstag that day. When Vladimir came to us with our new orders, something felt amiss. Right fucking there, I should have known. Right then and there…right then and there I should have known…I should have fucking done something!"

Petya stood up and kicked an errant tin can into the darkness with a clatter. Anger and regret burst through his face, and he looked ready to commit a murder. Renton stood up and gently squeezed his shoulder. He saw a bit too much of himself in the young officer. He was slipping into that madness that seemed to possess all in war.

"Just take it easy, Petya…"

His old friend and comrade sighed deeply, silently admonishing himself for not seeing the signs sooner. They could have prevented all of this if they just spoke up!

"Fucking Dewey," Petya hissed under his breath. "No offense to Eureka or her brothers, but Dewey is one slimy son of a bitch. Someone should have just taken him out."

"Just focus on getting General Novikov back for now. If you find that bomb, you need to destroy it. No one should have a weapon that destructive."

"Da, ya sdyelayu eta. Ya obeschayu. Although, I think we might not be the only ones who want that bomb." (A/N: Yes, I will do it. I promise.)

"What do you mean?"

The anger receded from Petya's face and he sat back down, lost in the blazes of the bonfire. He heard the horror stories from Renton and Holland about the laboratory in the woods, and the betrayal of their 'minder' from the Interior Ministry. If the NKVD wanted that bomb that badly…

"The western Allies will want that weapon, too."

"Why?" Petya smiled wistfully and looked up at his friend.

"The British and Americans fear us, my friend. We have the largest army the world has ever seen, and we've shown the world our might. If they think a state-of-the-art weapon will even the playing field, they will take it."

Renton shook his head in disgust at the reminder of global politics. The war was over, for heaven's sake. Germany was defeated, and Japan surely would not last much longer. Why couldn't their countries just live side by side? Why couldn't they simply rebuild the world to make a stable, lasting peace?

"We fought the Nazis together! Why can't we just be friends?" Renton admonished aloud.

"I'd like that very much, but politics has a way of complicating things."

The young boy sat back down, lost in the flames which seemed to tease images of a future. A future so close he could touch it. A vague, clouded future with possibilities good and bad. Just once, just once in his life, Renton would love to have clarity.

"Petya, I don't know what the future holds for this world after the war ends, but I want you to know this. No matter what happens, all of you…you, Vladimir, Natasha, Anatole, Ken-Goh…Dmitri…you are all my friends for life. No, not just friends. You're all my family, now. Nothing will ever change that."

The lieutenant smiled, and one arm pulled his old childhood playmate and friend closer. Even if political alliances shifted, and relations between powers changed, nothing could take away their bond. They had shed blood together, held each other in dire moments, and fought for one another when there was nothing else left. No ideological rift could change the fact that, no matter from where they hailed, they were just ordinary people united by a common experience.

"You are always welcome in my house, Yankee!" Petya jokingly swore, laughing.

"And you're welcome in mine, Russkie," Renton rejoined in jest.

They talked for a while longer, until at last, Ken-Goh came by and informed Petya it was time to start the mission. All of them hoped it would be their last.

»»»»»

The entire company of 150 soldiers left under the cover of night, exiting the city and heading west towards the Elbe River. A rescue raid of this scale was nothing short of daunting; not only would First Company have to rescue General Novikov and destroy the bomb, but also had to keep the entire operation under wraps. The last thing they needed was the news of chaos reaching the camps of British and American troops.

Renton Thurston tried his best not to concern himself with such thoughts. He trusted Ken-Goh, Petya, and the others. They were good, capable, hard-fighting soldiers. Veterans of four years of a brutal war on the Eastern Front. If anyone could handle this mission, they could.

Back in the makeshift barracks, Renton refocused his concerns on someone who needed his attention more than ever: Eureka Novikova.

The entire day she spent staring off into space from the hard mattress of her bunk, silently worrying herself sick about the fate of her father and the treachery of her eldest brother. If anything, the fact Dewey was tormenting their own father distressed her far more; her family had lost so much in this war: her home, her livelihood, and Mikhail were swept away. What did Dewey hope to gain by tearing their family asunder?

The dark brown haired teenager could only grieve in silence, even when her beau entered their shared room. She didn't even bother to look at him.

"Ken-Goh and the others just left," Renton reported. "They're going to the castle now."

Eureka's grey eyes moved towards Renton and nodded with acknowledgement.

"Good. But, I wish I could've went with them."

"So do I, but Petya said it was better we stay here. They've been to that castle before, so they know what it looks like and what's inside."

"I guess..."

The girl simply rolled over to her side, her back facing Renton.

Renton sensed she wanted to be left alone, but refused to go. She needed him in this moment, with so much at stake and her family's very existence in jeopardy. He knocked off his boots and climbed up the ladder to join her on the top bunk.

"Eurekasha," he started, "I know this is not an ideal situation. I don't like it any more than you do, but we have to trust them this time around. Don't you trust Natasha, or Petya, or the others?"

"Of course, I do, Rentoshka," Eureka admitted. "I trust our friends with every fiber of my being. But it's a hell of lot more complicated than that. I mean, what if they aren't strong enough to take down Dewey? It could be another trap, like back at the labs. I don't want to risk their lives in exchange for my father's!"

Truthfully, Renton did not know how to respond to such concerns, simply because they were his as well. There were many things he did not know, and could not anticipate. All he knew in that moment was his fiancée and the love of his life was hurting, badly, and her grief broke through in bright, salty tears on her porcelain face.

The young boy gently rubbed her back, if only to stem the tide of fear overwhelming her.

"I really don't know what's going to happen, to be honest. I don't know who will survive, but all we can do is just hope everything turns out all right."

Eureka finally looked into Renton's green eyes and some light had finally returned from her dull and unhappy ones. Sensing it was not enough, Renton caressed her smooth cheek, wiping away a tear.

"Eureka, I love you. No matter who lives or dies, no matter how this ends, I will always be here for you. We'll get through this together."

Eureka wordlessly embraced her fiancée, her face nestled in Renton's chest.

"Thank you, Renton. And I'll always be by your side as well."

He smiled, needing this as much as she did. The long road of betrayal and blood had left him weary and raw in the nerves, but seeing his love buoyed gave him hope as well. He needed to hope, if only for his own sanity.

But he sensed she needed something else as well. Something that mere words could not provide. He craned his head down and kissed the back of her neck, exposed thanks to her short haircut. All at once the girl felt an electric pulse race down her spine, and she bit back an aroused moan.

"P-Renton...What are you...?" Eureka managed, her breathing heavy. "W-we can't..."

"Don't say anything, darling," he whispered. "Just let me make you feel better."

Another moan escaped Eureka's lips as she felt more kisses on her neck. Any urge to resist her lover's seductive advances were thrown out the window as she wrapped her arms around Renton's back, welcoming whatever her man had to offer.

With great care, he laid her down on the bunk, as if handling a fine painting. Indeed, to him, she was more beautiful than any great work of art. She stared up into his face, cheeks flushed and breathing labored. Her hands clutched his tunic, not wanting him to move up and widen their distance. He didn't fight it; instead, Renton dove down and crashed his lips into hers in a passionate kiss. His tongue cautiously made its way into her mouth, and batted with hers in a light dance.

Both felt incredibly hot, and his fingers deftly went to work on her tunic, unbuttoning it and exposing her thin white camisole. Underneath, the silhouette of Eureka's frilly light blue brassiere shone through.

And so, the night continued with no room for depression and worry. Renton made well with his promise to pleasure Eureka in the best way that he could. While there was no sex, light touches, passionate kisses, and sensual closeness was all they needed to keep them entertained until fatigue finally claimed the couple.

»»»»»

The target castle, which overlooked the Elbe River from atop a high hill, dated back to the times of the Teutonic Knights and the House of Brandenburg. Aerial bombing raids which lasted more than five years had all but destroyed it, but it did not necessarily mean that the new points of entry were not guarded. The broken walls just meant one more checkpoint to slip past. And a few more enemies to drop.

Behind a tree underneath the cover of a storm and a dark night, a sniper's scope provided a window to a destroyed castle wall and a small security detail guarding the gaping wound. Three men, carrying submachine guns and wearing masks, patrolled around the area, occasionally shining a flashlight into the small woodlot. The dark-haired Natasha Badanova switched her view from one guard to another, seeing him reaching for a flashlight.

"Get down!" she hissed. "They'll see us!"

She and three silhouettes dropped to the muddy earth as a thunderclap broke the stillness of the night. A quick flash of lightning revealed the guards peering into the woodlot, the white beam slowly strafing from left to right. Natasha did not mind the mud smearing her face as it only added to her camouflage. Peering through the thorns and branches of brush, she watched the guardsmen shrug and turn away. She sighed quietly in relief; they had not been spotted.

One silhouette rose, and slowly approached a broken castle wall, a suppressor-equipped revolver in hand. One blue eye looked to Natasha and blinked twice. For the silhouette, it was his cue.

He crept up behind one guardsman, and leveled his revolver, lining the iron sights with the back of his head. Natasha likewise did the same with the middle guard, doing her best to steady her aim in the midst of pouring rain and mud. One last silhouette, smaller than the other, did the same at the last guardsman on the right. Slowly they shadowed the trio of masked men, waiting for the right moment to perform a kill.

A crash of thunder soon gave Natasha the sonic cover she needed, and fired. A flash of orange preceded the middle guardsman's body falling to the ground, lifeless. The two silhouettes struck synchronized at the remaining men as they noticed their comrade had fallen. Three bodies lay covered in mud, and the two shadows that slayed them were joined by two more. The tallest ushered Natasha to join them.

"That was a little stressful," she admitted upon joining the rest of her team.

"Really?" Petya asked, surprised. "I wasn't nervous at all. Not when I have you as our sniper."

Natasha's cheeks glowed pink in the rainfall. Even when they were on missions, Petya found the time to win her heart time after time. Dmitri stifled a laugh.

"On a mission and still flirting. Never change, comrade Lieutenant Sokolov!"

Petya did not pay the tease any mind, but only ushered the rest of his team forward. Behind him Natasha, Dmitri and Anatole followed. He led them all to a small ledge, overlooking the courtyard of the castle.

The castle had seen many occupiers, and was used for many purposes. Now, it had turned from a Wehrmacht headquarters to a Red Army fortress and the staging area for Dewey's dreamed invasion of the West. A thunderclap and a flash of lightning revealed the extent of Dewey's commitment: T-34/85 and IS-2 tanks sat in perfect formation, waiting for the orders to move. Behind them, stood high-caliber howitzers and artillery pieces, their muzzles aimed towards the stormy sky. The sight reminded Petya of legions of knights awaiting the command of their king, waiting to strike against his foes. Indeed, an aspiring tyrant wanted to see his enemies burn, even if it meant burning down the whole world.

At that moment, Ken-Goh called in on Petya's communicator.

" _Team Two, do you read me? Petya, are you in? Over."_

"This is Team Two. We made it and are overlooking the courtyard. Over."

" _Roger. All other teams, report on your status."_

A small intermission of static preceded a roll call as Petya looked around for his objective.

" _Team One reporting in. We just made it in, and proceeding to the courtyard. Over."_

" _Team Three standing by. Just give us the word and we'll make a diversion. Over."_

" _Team Four standing by at the main entrance. Comrade Lieutenant Sokolov, just give us a holler and we'll bail you out. Over."_

Petya chuckled at the last report. The whole company was mobilized for this mission, and it gave him comfort to know that they were all behind him should something go wrong. However, he didn't believe anything would; this was a simple rescue and exfiltration, not another combat mission. Not only that, but behind him stood veterans of four years of the most brutal war the world had ever seen. If they could survive the terror of the Great Patriotic War, this mission would be a breeze.

The young decorated lieutenant waved his hand and moved off the ledge and into the courtyard, straight into a row of supply trucks. Natasha, Dmitri and Anatole soon followed, stacking up behind the truck for cover. They shadowed him, looking everywhere for any prying eyes that would throw a wrench into their plans. If this went south, there would be hell to pay. Petya stopped and ordered his squad to hold in front of the trucks.

A masked guard passed by, making his patrol and smoking a cigarette. How the man managed to even light one in this inclement weather was a feat Petya and the others would likely never know. Dmitri hesitantly aimed his pistol at the guard's head, but Natasha gently pushed it down. She shook her head sagely and said,

"No one knows we're here. We should keep it that way."

"Only shoot what you can kill," Petya whispered in agreement.

The guard passed, and Petya looked around the corner of one truck. He nodded.

"Go!"

The three veterans quickly filed past him, and stacked up on a fuel truck, parked slightly ahead of the rest of the line. Petya soon joined them, and motioned for them to go prone.

"Everyone under the trucks."

The quartet crawled beneath the undercarriages of the fuel trucks, making their way towards the far end of the courtyard and a tall stone keep looking down on them. As they moved, Petya reached for something out of his knapsack. TNT wrapped in yellow plastic packaging, and marked with a mechanical timer. He gently slid the charges on top of the main axle of the truck, just underneath the engine. Anatole quickly did the same for his truck, Natasha for hers, and Dmitri for his.

"We'll burn this place to the ground if we have to," Anatole whispered as he adjusted the TNT timer.

"Comrade Captain," Petya hissed through his communicator, "we just planted charges on the fuel trucks. Timer is set to 15 minutes. Over."

" _Acknowledged. Head to the keep and find General Novikov. Team One, status update. Over."_

" _Just finished planting on the tanks. Timer is set for 15 minutes. Over."_

" _In that case, head to the castle arsenal. Doctor Deckard's bomb is likely there. Over."_

" _Roger. Team One out."_

Petya's team had to move too, but to reach the keep, a high tower in the castle, they would have to cross under a metal platform where several masked armed men stood ready with weapons. Worse yet, as they reached the end of the long parade of fuel trucks, a guard stood just a few feet in front, and would not move. A searchlight panned from left to right as the guard idled, waiting for something.

The squad crawled out, covered in mud and oil, and took cover behind an officer's jeep, slightly to the left of the sentry. It was clear he was not going anywhere, and would have to be removed. Natasha was the closest to him, and reached for her combat knife. But Petya urged caution.

"Don't let that spotlight see you. If we're found out, we'll be done before we're started."

Slowly, the veteran sniper approached the guard, aiming her knife right at his neck. One dark eye looked at the spotlight, waiting for it to cast its gaze elsewhere in search of intruders. The beam of light slowly moved off to the left, and Natasha struck quickly and silently.

She covered his mouth with her gloves and swiftly jabbed her blade into his neck. His muffled cries for help soon gave way to a soft groan as blood spurted from his jugular vein. The guard was dead, and Anatole soon came by to dispose of the body. For the squad, disposal simply meant hiding it underneath the chassis of a fuel truck. Petya looked on approvingly, and waved his hand in an order to continue towards the keep. Towards the stockades. Towards the prison cell of General Piotr Nikolayevich Novikov.

Inside, at the base of the keep, a security guard stood outside the elevator, making his rounds and occasionally looking down the rows of cell blocks. If anyone knew where the general was being held, it was likely him. Anatole started to make his way towards the guard when his back was turned, reaching for his pistol. A revolver with a suppressor mounted on the muzzle.

Just as the guard was turning around, Anatole kicked him hard in the back of the knee and forced him down, pinning the barrel of his revolver against his head. The guard whimpered as Anatole smothered his mouth and whispered an ultimatum.

"Listen, you have two choices. I either walk out of here with the information I need or your body. What's going to be?"

Anatole uncovered his mouth and the guard gave his answer.

"Take it easy, comrade! What do you want?"

"Lieutenant General Piotr Novikov. Where is he?" The guard laughed at the question, as if expecting this.

"Is that what this is about? He's in cell number 303. Now you get to see what the Colonel does to people who fuck with us. People like you!" Anatole scoffed.

"Looking forward to it."

Anatole kept his promise, and knocked out the guard by clubbing him in the head. Dmitri rushed to grab the guard's keys, and unlocked the lift to the upper floors. As they filed in and Natasha selected the third level, Petya updated Ken-Goh.

"We're on our way to pick up General Novikov."

" _Excellent job, Petya. We might just be able to get out of this unscathed. Team One, have you found the bomb yet? Over."_

" _We found it alright, comrade Captain. It was in the arsenal, like we suspected. However…"_

A thin sheet of sweat coated Petya's collar at that last word. The last thing they needed was a complication, especially if it involved a weapon as powerful as that uranium bomb. He pressed on his communicator as they passed the first floor.

"However, what? What's the problem over there, Sakharova? Over."

" _This bomb…it's massive, Lieutenant Sokolov. Bigger than any conventional bomb. We'd need at least 100 men to carry this thing out of here."_

Natasha looked to Petya with concern. If they couldn't move this bomb, it meant they would have to disable it on site, and leave it behind. Not only that, but no one knew if Dewey had engineers of his own; they could easily put it back into play. Petya's gloves curled into leather balls, as he gave his own instructions.

"Lieutenant Sakharova, listen to me. If that bomb gets into the wrong hands, it's the end of the road for all of us. I don't care what you need to do, but disable that thing. No one can have that weapon. Do you understand me?"

A short electric crackle buzzed in their ears as they glided up past the second floor. The silence told Petya what he needed to know. Hesitation and uncertainty gripped their comrades so hard it choked them. But Petya was nothing if not resolute and dogged.

"My best friend's future is riding on all of us right now. Everything we fought so hard to achieve is in the balance. You have to try, Lieutenant. That's all I ask."

Another static intermission preceded the deep voice of his superior and friend, Ken-Goh.

" _Whatever you have to do to disable that bomb, Team One, do it. We cannot let four years' worth of blood and treasure be for nothing. That's an order. Over."_

"… _Roger, comrade Captain. We'll disable it, one way or another. Team One out."_

The lift finally reached the third floor, and the squad of four filed out. Petya checked his watch as Anatole and Dmitri went first down the dark, damp corridors of the cell block. They had ten minutes left before the dynamite went off. Even if they weren't discovered, it would provide a decent distraction, and cripple any plans Dewey had for a last-ditch attack.

"Comrade General!" Natasha called, trying not to be too loud. "Comrade General, where are you?"

"General Novikov, can you hear us, sir?" Dmitri whispered, fearfully.

"H…hello, I-I-I'm in here…" a gravelly, elderly voice said weakly.

Petya reached the cell 303, and found a disheveled goateed man in a dirty officer's uniform. The epaulettes indicated the rank of lieutenant general, but Petya's tell sign was the quiver in his sky-blue eyes. The general's lips parted in surprise at seeing the young officer, Vladimir's old friend, and his former neighbor.

"Petya! You…"

"Comrade General, we've come to get you out."

"How did you even get here?"

"Vladimir ordered this mission. The whole company is here."

Natasha opened the cell door and helped Piotr Nikolayevich up. She immediately noticed how weak and frail he seemed as he struggled to stand. The general sighed in relief as he came out of his cell.

"Thank God…my prayers have been answered…!"

Piotr Nikolayevich tripped over the threshold of the cell, but was caught by Dmitri and Anatole. Petya still could not comprehend just how frail the stalwart general now was. He had aged ten times in the course of his captivity, his hair completely white and his face scarred from torment. What on earth did Dewey do to him?

Dmitri looked behind him, and saw no one. They were clear, and said as much to Petya. The squad started to make its way back to the lift, and formed a small diamond to protect the aged general. Natasha quietly asked him,

"Sir, will you be able to make it out of here?"

"It's not a question of will I or won't I, Sergeant. I must. For my children and for Rentoshka." Anatole quietly chuckled at that.

"He and Eureka will be glad to have you back, that's for certain."

They reached the lift, and before Petya called Ken-Goh, the general assured all of them:

"Dewey doesn't have the attack codes. I almost broke many times…but he never got it."

"That's good for us," Natasha thought aloud, relieved. "It means his whole plan for invasion is out the window."

"Don't be too certain. One thing about my son is he is very stubborn. He will find another way to get it, or he will come after me again."

"If he does, sir," Dmitri promised, "we'll be ready for him."

Petya selected the ground floor, and the lift started down. Ken-Goh called on all for an update.

" _Team Two, report. Did you find General Novikov? Over."_

"We did, Captain," Petya said, smiling at the elderly officer. "We're extracting him now."

" _Very good. Team One, how is the defusing going?"_

" _Engineers almost have it, sir. We should be done in…wait…Sergei, watch the door!"_

A loud explosion boomed through the communicator, and almost made Petya fall off the lift in surprise. The spatter of gunfire followed, and it was clear that something had gone wrong. Were they discovered? Was the whole operation a bust?

" _Lieutenant Sakharova, report! What's happening down there?"_

" _We've been made, sir! Belov and Lukianovsky are dead! Goddammit, return fire! RETURN FIRE!"_

"Are they security guards?!" Petya asked frantically.

" _Wait a second…I don't believe it…they're British!"_

The lift passed the second floor, and a deathly silence muzzled the squad. Not even the blaring of a warning siren shook them out of their stupor. For Petya, it was a confirmation of something he deeply feared. For Ken-Goh, he was lost in confusion.

" _How is that possible? They're operating outside their jurisdiction."_

" _These aren't regular British forces, sir. They look to be—goddammit, Viktor, keep your head down!—they look to be commandos. They must be here for the bomb."_

"Then it is just as I thought," Petya muttered fearfully. "We cannot let that bomb be owned by anyone." Ken-Goh concurred, and gave his orders.

" _Agreed, Petya. Team One: destroy the arsenal at once. Bring it down on their heads if you must. Do NOT let the British get that bomb!"_

" _Understood, Captain. We'll arm the explosives and get out of here. Petya, you best be ready for a fight."_ Petya chuckled quietly.

"We're always ready for a fight. Meet you at the courtyard. Team Two out."

The young veteran lieutenant turned to his trusted squad, who were readying their pistols. Any hope for a quiet extraction was now long gone. Ironically, it was the Western Allies that would give them the cover they needed to escape. Petya glanced over to Piotr Nikolayevich, who looked visibly sick and uneasy. This poor man was in no condition to fight, but he needed to stay alive.

"Comrade General," Petya said, grasping at the general's shoulder, "you should keep your head down. It's going to get really loud and busy soon."

"I gather. Petya, you must get me back to Berlin. I need to speak with the General Staff and the Western Allied command about what's happened."

"Don't worry yourself, sir. We'll get you back in one piece. Just keep behind us."

At last, the lift came down to the ground level, and the security office. A party of British commandos, clad in black face paint, was awaiting them. Petya leveled his PPSh-41 and gave the order.

"OGON'!"

The squad opened up a tremendous fire that ripped through the commandos like a reaper's scythe. Two, three, four commandos fell to the volley, and cleared a path for the squad. Piotr Nikolayevich kept to the rear; the last thing they all needed was for him to die. One after another the veteran squad bounded over the lift's barrier, and Dmitri found a weapon he could play with. A British "Sten" submachine gun.

"Who the hell makes a gun with the magazine on the side?" he asked rhetorically as he scavenged it off the dead commando.

There was no time to quibble over the design choices of a submachine gun, and they quickly exited the security office. Outside in the courtyard, chaos abounded, as the British commandos had launched a full-scale raid on the castle. The loud thunderbolts of the storm were almost completely drowned out by the cacophonic symphony of battle. Guns firing, bullets whizzing, and men shouting orders which no one obeyed.

A troupe of three masked security guards ran past, completely oblivious to Petya's squad. Not wanting to waste the moment, Dmitri unloaded his newly acquired Sten gun into the targets. The Sten had a lower rate of fire than the standard Soviet PPSh-41, which allowed Dmitri to more precisely control his shots. Four shots cut through one guard's leg, and slowed him down enough to fall over onto his right side, while another three pierced another guard's back, killing him instantly. Two more rounds sliced through the last guard's neck, and left him to die a slow death, gurgling in the rain.

Anatole dispatched the last wounded guard, and all moved up to the front landing outside the castle keep. Natasha reached for her scoped Mosin-Nagant and peered around for an exit, but it was impossible to tell anything in this bedlam. On top of it all, something else was concerning her.

"How long before those charges go off?" Petya checked his wristwatch.

"It should detonate right…about…"

BOOM! BOOM!

All at once, the fuel trucks exploded in a large orange ball of conflagration, and the tanks went up not a minute afterward. A sheet of smoke covered the entire courtyard, and the distraction the squad needed to escape had arrived. Well, two, counting the British commandos. Another crackle came through the communicator as Lieutenant Sakharova's squad encountered trouble.

" _Jesus…those fireworks really got their attention! My squad is pinned down at the arsenal entrance. I could sure use some help over here."_

"Hang tight, Sakharova," Petya assured her. "We're coming to you. Ken-Goh, there are commandos everywhere! We need a new exit."

" _Acknowledged. Teams Three and Four, you have the green light. Execute! Execute!"_

Petya ordered Natasha to stay behind and provide sniper cover, and to watch over the general. Natasha turned her scope towards the entrance of the arsenal, and found at least five British commandos all firing at the entry door behind all forms of cover. As Petya, Anatole and Dmitri sprinted down the steps and into the courtyard, more security guards arrived, trying to ascertain who to engage. Some turned towards the commandos, and others towards Petya's squad.

For Natasha, she made the choice in a split second.

CRACK!

A security guard fell with a clean shot through the eyehole of his mask. She quickly cycled the bolt, and snapped her scope to another guard, aiming an SVT-40 semiautomatic rifle at Anatole. She fired again, and her aim proved to be as solid as it ever was: a clean shot through his forehead. Anatole grabbed the SVT-40 and shot three times at one British commando hiding behind a munitions crate. Two shots connected with his shoulder and sides, and wounded him enough to divert his attention.

Natasha shifted her aim yet again, this time to a security guard locked in melee with Petya. She tried her best to steady her hand, not wanting to harm her fiancé and lover, but in the chaos of battle, it was hard to get a clear shot. They were moving too fast, and they were too close to risk a shot. The security guard was completely unaware of her as he struck her beau on the head with a blunt club, and sent him careening to the ground, face down in the mud. The guard raised his arm to beat him into submission, but Natasha would not have it.

She fired, but only wounded him in the arm. A gout of blood erupted from his forearm and forced him to drop the club, which gave Petya the time he needed to swiftly kick him down, and beat his face in with the club.

In the meantime, Dmitri and Anatole had managed to knock down the number of commandos from five to two, and with the volume of fire slackening, Sakharova and her squad came rushing up out of the arsenal entry door. The auburn-haired lieutenant screamed as she leapt on a commando and sunk her combat knife deep into his chest, while another squad member peppered the last one with several rounds from his PPSh-41. As more commandos tried to come in and rescue the situation, Dmitri reached for a grenade, and threw it.

Natasha tracked the grenade with her scope until it landed right in the middle of a squad of five commandos, and detonated. The effect of the well-placed grenade was devastating; some men were torn asunder by grenade shards that cut like a knife through hot butter, while others were rendered blind or immobile. It provided the time they needed for Sakharova's team to finish off the remaining commandos and retreat to the landing of the keep.

"Get up, Natasha!" Petya ordered. "We are leaving!"

"To where?!" Natasha asked as she rechambered new rounds. "There's no way out for us!"

"Oh yes, there is," Sakharova corrected. "The castle gatehouse. Let's go, quickly!"

The Red Army soldiers sprinted away from the chaos as the security guards were now fully focused on repelling the British. Beyond the courtyard there was a large gatehouse where the main entryway in and out of the castle stood: two large wooden doors, at least 25 feet high, were all that stood between them and a mission success. But they were not opened. Team Four was behind schedule.

"Team Four," Petya screeched frantically, "what are you waiting for? Blow the goddamn doors off!"

" _We're still arming the explosives,"_ the team leader shouted back. _"Just give us a minute!"_

"WE DON'T HAVE A FUCKING MINUTE!"

In the quick moments of hesitation as they waited for an opening to be created, reinforcements of masked security guards arrived, and they were not intent on waiting for Petya and the others to hand over General Novikov. If necessary, they would kill them all. That much was made clear when Petya's squad took its first casualty.

A guard aimed his SVT-40 at young Dmitri Voronin, and fired once, then twice. One shot landed on the private's right leg, and he knelt down in pain. Anatole and Natasha heard the cry and dashed to retrieve their wounded comrade while Petya pulled Piotr Nikolayevich behind a several empty metal barrels.

When he found his friend, Anatole saw the extent of the damage which made him gasp in shock and fear, perhaps for the first time in his whole life. The bullet went right through Dmitri's right thigh, dangerously close to his artery. Blood mixing with mud and rain, he wondered if there was anything that could be done.

"Dima, look at me!" he said hysterically to his old friend. "How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Four…although, I don't think a wound like this affects my sight," Dmitri quipped.

A bullet snapped near them and forced the trio to move out of the open and behind a stone retaining wall. The small platoon of soldiers was now pinned down, facing certain annihilation from all directions if the doors were not destroyed soon. Dmitri looked around, his body feeling feverish and his vision a haze. He spied a lone DP-28 light machine gun resting against the wall.

"Hand me that DP-28."

Meanwhile, Petya desperately radioed his comrades outside the castle, keeping an eye to his front. More security guards were pouring in, trying desperately to get back their prisoner. He blind-fired his PPSh-41 to slow down the oncoming tide. How many were descending upon them now?

"How long is going to be, Team Four?!" he growled. "My men can't hold much longer!"

" _About 20 more seconds. Just hang on!"_

"Petya," Piotr Nikolayevich cried, "here comes some more!"

Petya looked over the edge of the boxes, and counted at least 10 masked men running to their position. When one fired, Petya flinched as splinters flew in all directions. He leaned around the corner to fire, but instead heard what sounded like a rapid typewriter and watched a sheet of lead slice through the cohort of armed men. He looked over to his right, and saw Dmitri, the recruit-turned-veteran, manning the machine gun and suppressing their attackers. He smiled, still amazed that he had come so far in only four years.

" _Here it comes, Petya! Hold your ears!"_

BLAM!

A loud explosion rocked the castle to its foundations, and covered them all in smoke and dust. Behind them a gaping hole at least ten feet high and six feet wide, big enough for all of them to exit. For Petya, it was enough, and he turned to the elderly general.

"On your feet, sir. We're leaving."

Natasha and Anatole saw Petya signal them to go, and their time to finally leave the castle was upon them. Dmitri wanted to leave as well, but more security guards were reinforcing the destroyed gatehouse, pouring from all sides. He recognized that if they all left now, they would be slaughtered. He told his comrades:

"I'll cover you! Now, go!"

"Dmitri, don't be an idiot!" Anatole protested. "If you stay here, you'll be killed for sure!"

"All of you will, too, if you don't move! I'll be right behind you; I promise."

Natasha tried to argue, as did Anatole, but time was of the essence. A few more seconds spent lingering and they would all be dead. Dmitri kept up his fire as Sakharova's team filed out first, disappearing down the hillside and into the forest, and Petya sent Piotr Nikolayevich out with them. Once the entire squad was gone, it was Petya's turn.

Dmitri unloaded a tremendous fire down upon the advancing security guards, and threw in his last grenade for good measure. One by one, his comrades exited through the giant hole, turning around to part one last shot before retreating. He was the last one left, and he began to make his retreat as well.

The wound in his leg smarted terribly, and he could do little more than quickly limp towards the door. For a fleeting moment, he could see the bottom of the hill, and thought for sure he would get out of this alive.

But that was before he felt a sharp, hot pain in his shoulder, followed quickly by a stab in his chest.

Dmitri suddenly lost all of his strength and fell forward, smothered in his own blood. His eyes still focused on the gatehouse, all he could do was crawl, trying desperately to catch up to his comrades. He suddenly felt short of breath, and the pain almost blinded him. In his mind, all Dmitri Voronin could think of was what he wanted to say to Renton the next time he saw him.

"I wanted…to ask him…so many more questions…"

His fingers gripped the gravel outside the gatehouse, and while he lost sight of his friends, he truly thought he was free. Dmitri smiled, and kept thinking aloud.

"I'll make it…I always do…I always have…!"

BANG!

A shot rang out, and he felt another stinging pain, this time just below his neck. Everything went black, and there was nothing left for him to grasp.

* * *

 **A/N: Eureka and Holland's father is safe, and the uranium bomb is unusable, but not without its share of sacrifices. Dewey is not going to take this lying down, and there may be more than just him to worry about.**

 **The arrival of British commandos and the fight over possession of the bomb was inspired from postwar operations by the British and Americans. They often went after Nazi scientists and engineers to gain intelligence about new weaponry and technology. The most well-known of these activities is the American Operation Paperclip, which detained several German scientists who were part of the Nazi nuclear weapons project. The British and Soviets also did their share of detainment and acquisition in Operations Epsilon and Alsos, respectively.**

 **Sad how global politics makes a mess of everything, doesn't it?**

 **Another warning: the next chapter is a long battle, the longest I've ever written as a matter of fact. You may need to set some time aside to read it all in one go, but I think you will all enjoy what comes next.**

 **Until then.**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: Did the last character death shock you? I'm sure it must have shocked some people, but there are still more sacrifices to be made if peace is to ever be achieved. Dewey is not done yet, and he will get his plan moving no matter what he has to do. So be warned, there are more character deaths here, and you may be surprised at who falls next.**

 **Also, this is the longest chapter I've ever written since it is another battle, so you may need to set aside some time to read it all through in one go. It's okay, though, since we are so close to the end, and people have never complained to me about the length. I take it as a good thing.**

 **Also, next week, the final chapters will be posted. There's one more battle, and a conclusion. When I arrive at that point, I will explain everything that happens to me afterward. I'm not done with writing fanfiction after this, so I want to clear the air a bit on questions people have been asking me privately. Plus, with the new Eureka 7 movie trilogy announced, there are a lot of questions of whether I will make a comeback or do another fiction series like I did here. I'll answer those questions and many many more when next weekend rolls around.**

 **So, read on, beware, and enjoy if you can.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-one**

 **August 29** **th** **, 1944**

 **St. Come-du-Mont, France**

No sooner had the victory parade in Paris ended when Renton called for a march back to Normandy. For him, the war was over. There would be no more battles for him after this. There would be no more killing for him after this. This was his last campaign. All that was left before returning home was to bury the dead, say goodbye, and pay his old debts.

The village where Renton met and grew up with Jacques, Charles and Ray had changed little in the three months they spent on campaign. The farmers' fields still lay untouched, with fields of grain dancing in the late summer breeze. The small woodlot beside the river served as a reminder of where Renton's long and bloody journey began. The stone bridge bore little wear after their first crossing, the crossing which led Renton into a serpentine journey of blood, steel, rubble and death.

All he could do was walk along the dirt roads, gaze at the empty chateaus of Jacques, Charles, and Ray, and think, remember, and wonder. So many alternate scenarios tempted him to ask the question of what could have been done differently. What if he didn't part ways with Jacques after Carentan? What if he didn't split his forces in Caen? What if he didn't try to fight that Tiger tank one-on-one?

The questions offered nothing except a growing despair and depression that ate away at his soul. That same despair only strengthened his resolve to turn his back on all of this, and vow to never again take up the sword.

An open plain out by the river found some of the soldiers working the somber duty of burial, digging deep enough graves to rest their brave comrades. Since their deaths in Caen, the bodies of Jacques Desjardins, Charles Fontaine and Ray Leblanc were kept in marked bags, zipped up to prevent exposure to the elements. Even though there was little time to mourn and eulogize on campaign, they still clung to their old friends, as if they carried some special charm that kept them alive.

Dominic Sorel, the American student, classmate, and right hand of Renton Thurston, grunted with effort as his digging spade scooped out another pound of earth from the ground. Even he, who had long aspired to wear the uniform and experience the thrill of combat, was shaken from the three-month experience. He saw men die before his eyes in horrific ways, and witnessed destruction unparalleled. He knew what it was like to kill a man, and his hands were doused with the blood of others. It was still amazing that he was alive at all.

"I should be dead a thousand times over," he thought aloud as he dug deeper. "Rather surprised that the chief alone survived."

"The same thought occurred to me, several times," a kindly feminine voice answered.

Dominic's gunmetal grey eyes turned up from his work and saw the orange hair and magenta eyes of his lover and one of the principle medics of their troop: Anemone Doolittle. She leaned on a cross, and wore a frayed black coatdress with a matching shawl, leggings and boots. The only thing that indicated her status as a medic was the white armband with a straight red cross just above her left elbow. Her eyes seemed tired, but relieved. Relieved that they had lived through a horrific campaign and survived…mostly.

She offered Dominic her canteen.

"I'm astonished that we ALL managed to live the next day." Dominic graciously accepted the canteen with a small smile, and drank.

"Thanks, Anemone. My throat's been feeling like sandpaper for a while."

Anemone looked over at the other graves, each marked with crude, handmade crosses. The leaden work of grave digging reminded her too well of the costs they paid to stay alive. God may have spared them, but He was not as kind to others.

"It's too bad Jacques couldn't live to see what we did," she said. "I know he would have been happy."

"You got that right. We lost too many good people in this one. I can't imagine what Ren must be feeling right now."

"Or Sakuya," Anemone added with a look of quiet melancholy.

"Yeah, or Sakuya. And to top it off, we're leaving after this, too! Sakuya's just losing everyone, it seems."

The solemnity muffled them, as Dominic could only keep digging, until he deemed the hole deep enough for the body. Anemone's eyes turned back to the village, and saw her commander, classmate and friend Renton wandering the streets, as if looking for a lost friend, one that would never come back. As he climbed out, the young student-turned-soldier saw where his girlfriend's gaze was focused, and offered some consolation to lift their spirits.

"You shouldn't worry about him, Anemone. The chief will be okay, and many others like him." The Irish nurse sighed heavily, questioning the validity of that statement.

"Will he? He's had a lot to deal with last year, and now, this. There's only so much a guy like him can take."

"Maybe, but he's got friends and family to help him when he gets home."

Dominic pulled himself up, and splashed some water on his face before handing the canteen back to his girlfriend. Seeing his old friend and commander walking around aimlessly, his trench coat in tatters and the soles of his shoes almost worn through to the skin, he was reminded of many a photograph of veterans from previous conflicts. Veterans who were afflicted with the same disease.

"You know, my pop went through something similar to the chief. He fought with the Marines in the Great War, remember? It filled him with pride, but when he came back home…he was a sick man." Anemone nodded.

"Yes, you told me that a while back. He suffered nightmares, insomnia, depression…among other things. He had a name for it. What was it…?"

"Shell shock, he called it. He had it really, really bad."

"He wasn't the same after that, and he even tried to convince you to choose another profession."

"Yeah, but he only managed to make it to today because he met my mom. If it weren't for her, he'd probably have gone off the deep end, and done God knows what."

Anemone's eyes widened slightly and then glanced back to Renton, who was joined by Eureka, her close friend and Dominic's.

"That's right. He _did_ have someone to bring him back to the light when he was sinking into the darkness." Dominic nodded in agreement.

"Like Dad, Renton won't be alone. He'll be alright, Anemone. I know he will."

Anemone smiled softly, reaching for her lover's hand, before pulling him into a warm embrace. They would come back from this, too, like Renton would. They had to, if only to honor those who had fallen for them.

In the village, Eureka led Renton to the fields, where the bodies were interred and all stood, mourning for his lost friends. She noticed a weakness in his step, the wound from Paris still smarting, leaving him with a limp. It may be a long time before he could be a fully fit man again. There was a labor in his breath, each move a struggle. This campaign had cost him more than just his friends; it cost him his strength, his very being. She had no doubts that this was his last battle, his last campaign.

They crossed the road, and came face to face with a comrade who never carried a weapon, never killed an enemy in battle. His only weapons were his Bible and his rosary beads. A man with a shaved head and dark brown eyes, dressed in olive fatigues and brown combat boots. He would be another soldier if not for his prayer book.

"Father Norbert…" Renton said quietly.

"Capitaine Thurston."

"I suppose this will be the last time we see each other." Norbert nodded slowly.

"Indeed, it will be. We'll be following different paths. Something inevitable for all comrades."

"It's too bad that we're leaving under such…sad circumstances."

"Indeed," Norbert agreed somberly. "It's…hard on everybody."

"What will you do," Eureka asked softly, "now that this is over, Father? Do you have a home somewhere?"

"Not here, Madame Novikova. Not long ago, I was in Notre Dame, as a bell ringer, but that was before the German invasion. After this, I will go back to Paris, and resume my work there."

"You will be well suited there, Father Norbert. I wish you all the best in your future."

Renton bit his lip at the word "future." A word that was now an unattainable luxury for his old friends. He looked off to the fields, where the crosses stood in a row. Sentinels keeping watch, serving as a reminder of the price they paid for liberty. The price he paid for chasing after the ghosts of his past.

"Father Norbert, answer me something. How do you move on after so much loss? How do you keep living when there seems to be so little to live for?"

Norbert pressed his Bible close to his chest, and breathed deeply. It was a question one of their comrades asked him on campaign not too long ago. She had been lost in a despair much like his commander's. For the sake of his leader's health in a new postwar world, he imparted the same thoughts he gave to her.

"God gives us challenges to make us stronger, Capitaine. It is natural to feel grief and express sorrow; we are humans, after all. But God also gave us the people with whom we live each day. I would say never forget who your friends and family are. We are all God's children, and in that way, all of us are family."

Renton said nothing, but only sensed the light squeeze of Eureka, and nodded. He had lost many people in this war, but he was also surrounded by people who cared for him. In the many instances when he thought he was utterly lost, someone brought him back to the path he had to walk. And walk he did.

Up the hill to the line of graves. To the small weary band of partisans and freedom fighters, waiting for their final dismissal. To Holland Novikov and Dominic Sorel, his best friends and trusted lieutenants. To Sakuya Kobayashi and Anemone Doolittle, the remaining medics, and to the two surviving militiamen from Denisov's platoon.

Their faces were stony and tired, and who could blame them? When they began this campaign, there were more than 100 of them from this village. Less than a dozen returned three months later. Casualties suffered in three months' fighting all but destroyed them, and after Paris, there were those who chose to join the newly reconstituted French Army to continue the fight. Germany was not yet finished, even as the Wehrmacht fled towards the Rhine River and the Siegfried Line. What good was victory when so many had gone, and there were still others who vowed to continue until Germany was ground into dust?

They knew their commander's time in France was at an end, and after this he would return home. He had a family of his own to raise, and a fiancée to eventually wed. His time as a soldier was at an end, and his lifelong tenure as a civilian was about to begin, after one last martial rite.

"My friends," he said, his voice soft and subdued, "it has been a long and hard-fought campaign. We lost many friends and family along the way, myself included. All of the friends I had in this small company are gone, now. They made the ultimate sacrifice to free their country and their families. In the end, that is precisely what we managed to achieve. In that sense, we are part of a special group."

He paused, and glanced at the tired partisans. Eureka, wearing her dark blue coatdress, removed her beret and pressed it to her bosom, her lips quivering. Beside her, Sakuya Kobayashi, the Japanese expatriate and former student, looked on, holding tightly onto Eureka's calloused hand. She wore the wardrobe of a civilian, a white dress with green accents and a light mint neckerchief beneath her collar.

"Countless millions like you and I gathered together across this great land in the wake of defeat four years ago, vowing not to go quietly into the night. From the docks of Cherbourg to the vineyards of Lyon to the sandy shores of Marseilles and everywhere in-between, your fellow brothers and sisters banded together. You swore that the battle for France was not decided, and you swore to resist foreign tyranny. History may not remember what any of us say here, but it will never forget what you all did here. You won back freedom for yourselves, your families and your country. You owe this victory to your unbridled patriotism, your unbounded love for liberty, and your unique bravery. But above all else, you owe it to your comrades, the men and women for whom you fought and bled every day."

A soft murmur of agreement and Holland's gentle nod preceded Renton's next part. His commander's normally steely voice shook with each syllable.

"There exists among us a bond, unlike any in mankind. It is a bond forged only in combat. We are brothers and sisters of shared foxholes and trenches, we've seen death and suffered together, and we held each other in dire moments, when all seemed lost. I do believe that if it were not for the friendship and common cause that bind us, I would have long given up this campaign and gone home."

He folded his arms behind him, and bit back a sob.

"I am honored and proud to have served with each and every one of you. You all deserve long and happy lives of peace. Godspeed to you all."

A heavy sigh served as the conclusion, and he turned to make the long walk towards the dirt road, and the road to a ship that would take him and all who came with him home at last. A moment of silence passed, and as their fearless commander cautiously stepped down the hill and cast off the martial mantle, a single voice cried:

"God bless Renton Thurston, the American Russian!"

The lone yell yielded to a collective cheer as loud as any car engine, one that compelled all of them, veteran and recruit, wounded and unbroken, to rush down the hill and embrace their commander in joy, in solidarity, and in sorrow to see him leave. Waves of encouragement, compliment, and admiration crashed on his body with the force of a tsunami, until he was so overwhelmed that he could not leave without at least shaking each of their hands.

On the other side of the crowd, another tearful parting was breaking the hearts of two fire-forged friends. Eureka could barely speak, and only managed to hold onto Sakuya's hands, as if fearful of her disappearing.

"Sakuya…my friend…" she choked, smiling wistfully through her tears, "…I'm so glad I met you." Sakuya said nothing, but only nodded understandingly. "I hope…things will be better for you now."

"They will be, Eureka. I know they will."

"What will you do, now? Will you stay here in France?" Sakuya shook her head, surprisingly.

"I'd like to, but when this war ends, I ought to go back to Japan. My family hasn't seen me since I left there several years ago, and they probably think I'm dead. Once I go back I'll finish my schooling." Eureka seemed crestfallen at the news, since it meant the unlikelihood of either of them meeting again.

"Oh, I see. It's too bad we can't stay longer. There is so much more I want to tell you…!"

"Such as?"

She considered for a few moments, and a catalog of thoughts were laid out before her. How brave Sakuya was. How calm she could be. How was it even possible that she still stood after all of this, after so many close friends lost?

"Well…you're an immensely strong woman for just going forward after all of this. I can't imagine what it must take, after all you have been through."

"I have to move forward, Eureka, for those who can't anymore. Father Norbert said the same to me; we owe it to the dead to keep on living, lest we dishonor them and everything they fought for."

"You're too right about that. He said the same to Renton as well. I just pray things will get better for all of us now."

"What's your address?"

Eureka almost gasped upon hearing the question, as if wondering why she, of all people, would have any reason to keep their friendship alive. From this point on, their lives would diverge, and they would likely never see each other again. So why?

"I'd hate to miss out on the news of your wedding. You must tell me everything you can!"

"Oh Sakuya…"

Eureka could not muster the courage to say anymore, and only tightly hugged her friend, nearly suffocating herself. Even if the chances for meeting again face to face were close to nil, she could not deny the request. To forget her would be to forget about everything she lived through in three months that changed her life and the world.

Eventually, the time came for Renton and his original party to leave, and when they marched up the road towards the coast, Eureka could not keep her eyes forward. All she could do was look back, to her Japanese friend and comrade who stood by and supported her like another sister.

 **Sakuya Kobayashi (1925-2015)**

With war's end, Sakuya briefly returned home to Japan and finished her schooling, eventually earning a degree in agriculture from the University of Tokyo. She would return to France and open a small florist shop in Paris, where she made a living selling lotus flowers. While she and Eureka never again met, she regularly wrote her until her death at the age of 90.

 **Norbert Vandamme (1922- )**

The young chaplain returned to his work as a bell ringer in Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris after the Normandy campaign. Together with the cathedral staff, Norbert devoted his life to helping families whose lives were destroyed by the war. His charity and kindness eventually saw him become assistant to the cathedral's archdeacon. He maintained a close friendship with Sakuya Kobayashi throughout his life, but his religion barred him from marriage.

»»»»»

 **July 6** **th** **, 1945**

 **Somewhere in Soviet-occupied Germany**

"That kid shouldn't have died," Renton remarked bitterly as he looked over Dmitri Voronin's newly dug grave.

There was little time for a funeral in the aftermath of the raid, and all that Dmitri's friends could do was return him to the earth from which he came. The rifle and helmet served as a headstone, with his identification tags tied around the trigger guard. Renton ground his teeth in frustration and sorrow, regretting how everyone he met, everyone he loved, seemed to face the same fate. Death does indeed come for all.

"He was a good kid," he continued. "He should have died fighting the Germans, not like this. No one deserves to die in a fight like this."

"I'm beginning to agree with you there," Holland thought aloud, sighing deeply.

A heavy rough-skinned hand weighed on Renton's back, and the young American sensed the trepidation in his Russian friend. The grave's sight only brought him down further, and he suddenly felt 100 pounds heavier. Why was it that everyone close to him had to suffer? Was he cursed?

"It all feels so unfair, Holland. I'm glad we got your father back, but…this isn't what I thought we would have to do."

"None of us did, my friend. It doesn't matter how tough you are, how long you've served, or how smart and cunning you may be. If you're in the wrong spot at the wrong time, you're going to bite it."

"Why does it always have to be that way? Why do we always lose the ones we love the most?"

Holland said nothing, simply because there was no easy answer. Even he, after all his years fighting and bleeding in war, could not answer that question. He had seen many a friend and classmate die in battle, often without any real reason at all. It was something to which he grew accustomed, but it hardly lessened the impact of each death. His silence only deepened Renton's depression, and unearthed his previously-held doubts.

"I don't know, Rentoshka," he said quietly, gazing at Dmitri's impromptu tomb. "All I know is life can be a real mess."

"Damn right, and we stumbled into one bloody hell of a mess. We may be in over our heads, this time."

Holland glanced over at his friend, and saw the familiar glaze in his jade eyes, the one of hesitance. Of wanting to back away. After everything they had seen and everything they had lost, the ex-partisan could hardly blame him. Perhaps this was what he feared would happen should they ever return.

"What do you mean, old friend?" Renton only shook his head in despair, his eyes never leaving the grave.

"What I say. I don't think we can fix the problems we're faced with now. They've spiraled out of our control, and we might be endangering ourselves if we stick around."

"Renton, it's just my brother. All we need to do is find where he's gone, and this will be over."

"I wish it was just your brother, Holland, but it isn't, anymore. This is much bigger than him! It's bigger than _any_ of us! Don't you see what's happening here?!"

Renton slowly faced his future brother-in-law, his eyes tired, his oak brown hair frazzled, and his nerves completely shot. To Holland, he was indistinguishable from a walking corpse.

"Dewey is just a symptom of a disease we can't treat. For God's sake, Holland, British commandos broke into that castle to get that uranium bomb! We were bamboozled by that 'observer' from the secret police to get that doctor! It's by the grace of God that neither of them got what they wanted. We're fighting against something that's beyond our control."

The militia officer thought he saw a twitch in Renton's body. He wondered if this was what originally compelled him to refuse to go.

"What would you have us do, Renton?"

"Go home. Forget this ever happened, and leave everything behind while we still can."

"Including Volodya and Father?"

He expected a pause, a moment when his friend would see the error in his thinking. Instead, he only shook his head and brushed away an errant lock of hair. The follicles were greying from the root up, a product of the immense stress.

"They can come with us, if they want. Anyone who wants to come back with us can go. It won't be long before Moscow comes looking for us, too, after we put that commissar in the dirt. We all have targets on our backs, now, so let's just get out altogether. Let's fight for something we can believe in."

He wondered for the longest time why Renton was so hesitant to join the fray once more. Ever since the end of the Normandy campaign, Renton told his friend many a night that he would not go back and do that deadly work. He would not fall into that cesspit of madness that always seemed to take him in battle. He would not do it simply because it would mean forsaking Eureka, Holland, and everyone about whom he cared so deeply. But Holland wondered if a situation like this was something Renton foresaw. Caught on both sides by giants, hunted by friend and foe alike, and stuck in the middle of a rift between allies that only grew wider with each passing day.

Holland sighed, finally understanding why his friend refused to go with him to begin with. If he knew this was what would happen to them, he would have refused too.

It was at that moment when footsteps approached the two friends, and Holland saw Nadia, the former secret policeman and now Renton's bodyguard, solemnly march up to them. The death of her colleague Roza hit her hard, as she kept out of sight and out of the way since arriving in Berlin. Now even she was at her limit, as she failed to suppress a yawn, a side-effect from lack of sleep.

"There you are, Nadia," Holland greeted. "How is Father holding up?"

"He is resting with Eureka, now. Whatever your brother tried to do, he nearly killed the man. So, Thurston, what do we do now?"

Renton smiled ruefully, wondering just what more could be gained by continuing the chase. Holland filled in the blanks for Nadia.

"Renton doesn't think it's worth pursuing Dewey any further, and that we should just pack up and leave. What would you say?"

Nadia was stunned, chilled, almost terrified at the proposal, but after everything they had seen, and considering the fiasco in which they were embroiled, it was hardly surprising that Renton would have second thoughts. With Roza gone, the NKVD undoubtedly hunting them, and a counterattack by Dewey all but certain, she wondered if it was indeed the right moment.

"I certainly understand why," she said after much thought. "Frankly, Lieutenant Novikov, we are in a very dangerous place, and given all that has happened, we may be fighting more than just Dewey and his soldiers. It is only a matter of time until Moscow starts asking questions about Commissar Pozharsky. To be honest, sir, we may be facing something beyond our control."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at what this fight has become. We were misled by a government agent to get a doctor, and British commandos raided the castle where your father was held to get the doctor's weapon. It's not just about Dewey's plan to start another conflict anymore."

The ex-secret policeman gripped at her belt, the leather cutting grooves into her palm. A terrible, sobering reality stared her in the face when she closed her eyes, thinking of what they could do.

"The grand alliance that destroyed fascism is falling apart before our eyes, Lieutenant, and this fight for Deckard's uranium bomb was the first skirmish. It will not last beyond Japan's defeat. If we stay, we will be hunted by the Soviets as well as Dewey. It may be best for us to just leave."

Holland looked back to his friend, then back to Nadia, and felt the claw of apprehension grasp at his soul as well. It was the same doubts he had when planning the whole expedition at the start. Was chasing after Dewey even worth it? Did Renton Thurston even matter to him, anymore? Was there anymore they could even do, now that they had disposed of the bomb, and retrieved his father? For all intents and purposes, his plan was dead on arrival.

Perhaps it was time to prevent further losses.

KABLAM!

No sooner had Holland begun to entertain the notion of leaving when an earsplitting explosion shook the earth with the force of a volcano blast, and all three looked back towards their safehouse. An abandoned factory on the outskirts of a village just received a large shell near its base, followed by another loud explosion. They were quickly followed by a rapid series of loud pops. Gunfire.

"It's Dewey!" Holland said hastily, reaching for his pistol. "Looks like he's making one last effort."

"Undoubtedly, he's here for your father, again," Nadia speculated. "Let's hurry!"

Renton grabbed his Mosin-Nagant rifle and started on his way towards the factory. The time for mulling about whether to stay or go would have to wait until after this battle. How on earth did Dewey even track them down? It didn't matter; they would withstand this attack, same as always, and just leave afterward.

The closer they came to the factory, the more severe the damage appeared. Several masked armed men were storming through a large hole, a gaping wound, in the walls of the factory. Dewey's men. Bright, orange flashes emanated from inside the factory, where First Company and Holland's militia squad were desperately trying to hold them off.

Renton took aim at one stocky gunman, leading the way into the breach. Holland was a few steps ahead, however, and tossed a fragmentation grenade like a baseball towards the small squad. It landed right at the lead gunman's feet before exploding. The effect of the blast was akin to an earthquake; the lead gunman fell instantly with a bloodied arm and head while the rest were flung in all directions like ragdolls. It provided the opening for the trio to rush in, but as Nadia bounded through the breach, more gunmen arrived.

One screamed like a banshee and almost crashed into Renton, bearing a 'liberated' Sturmgewehr-44. Renton had to dig in his heels to keep his balance, and fought in a battle of sheer strength to overwhelm him. The gunman swung the butt of his gun with a loud grunt, but Renton swiftly dodged it with a jump backward. That provided enough space for him to stab the gunman in the heart with his bayonet. The gunman groaned and fell to his knees before Renton swiped out the bayonet. Finally, he clubbed the man across the head with the stock, and looked off to his right to see a familiar-looking silhouette.

It was a tall man with wild hair burrowed beneath his officer's cap, and a rain cape and hood tied around his collar, giving an imposing, almost frightening appearance. For a moment, Renton thought he was looking at a villain from an old silent film. His black jackboots kicked up dust as he walked, and in the smoke and haze, Renton thought he saw a bayonet's luster in his eyes and a ghostly smirk.

"He's here."

Renton gently nudged Holland, and pointed off into the distance. Seeing his older brother after so many years made the young militia lieutenant's blood run cold, but at the same time, he could not help but be glad to know he was still alive. It was only a shame that he was not a better human being than when they last saw each other.

"Renton, go get Eureka and Father. Tell them we're leaving."

"What about you?"

"I'll gather my squad and meet you. Just go!"

The American had no choice but to trust his friend, and ran into the factory where he was soon joined by Nadia. He found her quickly conversing with Vladimir who, with other members of his battalion, had just fought off an assault by Dewey's gunmen.

"How the hell did brother find us?!" Vladimir asked no one in particular.

"Doesn't matter," Anatole quipped as he loaded a new magazine into his PPSh-41. "We push them back and kick ass, same as always!"

"We'll have to push back really hard if we're to survive this…"

He reloaded his TT-33, and looked over at Renton, who was firing his rifle at an unseen enemy. For some reason, he felt a deep sense of longing, of nostalgia. The officer remembered vividly how often he played in games of soldier with Renton and the others from his neighborhood. To think those games of soldier now had stakes of life and death…

"You need to get Eureka and Father out of here, Renton! MOVE!"

"You better be right behind us when we leave!"

Renton disappeared up the stairs, and Nadia was about to follow him when a distress call came over the major's radio. It was Lieutenant Sokolov.

" _Vladimir, do you read me?! They've breached the north entrance… (cough, cough)…I'm pinned down with Natasha and Ken-Goh! I need help now!"_

"Stay there, Petya," Vladimir ordered, "we're coming to you."

Vladimir glanced over at the stairs, and saw Nadia lingering, her C96 pistol at the ready. In the time she had been with them, the ex-secret policeman and former assassin had proved brave and resourceful, even when it turned out their so-called friends were enemies in disguise. He had something important he still needed to do, and it would require her assistance.

"Agent 340, I need your help."

"What would you have me do, comrade Major?"

"Come with us and bail Petya out."

Nadia did not question it, and only followed Vladimir and Anatole into the darkness towards the other side of the factory. The wall had yet another large hole, recently exploded as smoke and dust wafted through the air like a thick gas. No sooner had they entered the room, which housed several generators when it was alight with gunfire.

Vladimir entered the room first, and saw one gunman trying to flank them from the right. He opened fire with four shots from his TT-33 and managed to slow him down briefly, but brought his attention away from Petya's group, crouched behind a piston engine, Anatole barged in and slid down, firing his submachine gun into the flanker before finally taking him down. Vladimir and Anatole were now free to move forward to Petya's group, who were fending off yet another attack from the breach.

The dim light of the factory and the afternoon light from outside gave the battle an ethereal quality, as if Dewey's gunmen were descending from the heavens to mete judgement on man. But they were no angels; they were demons, and they fought like them as well. The dark silhouettes of the gunman made for easy targets, as Petya sprayed any who got too close to the breach, and Natasha picked off marksmen and snipers from afar. Even Ken-Goh lent a hand, if only by finishing off targets with his pistol.

Nadia came into the room now and looked off to a dark corridor on her left, and saw yet another flanker, this time brandishing an SVT-40 semiautomatic rifle. She took aim and discharged three shots from her pistol, only to find she had spent her clip. Her sidearm empty, and the gunman charging towards her, she had only one choice: fight head on, in close quarters.

The gunman lunged forward, hoping to stab Nadia in the chest with his bayonet but Nadia sidestepped him, grabbing the barrel of the SVT-40. She quickly reached for her combat knife and stabbed the gunman several times in the stomach. He groaned in pain, and blood leaked from his lips as his grip on the rifle loosened. Nadia finished him quickly with a slash across his throat, and claimed the rifle for herself.

It was just in time as well, as another wave of attackers stormed through the breach. She unloaded her entire magazine into them as they came through like a tidal wave. One, two, three, four enemies fell, piling up on both sides of the breach and formed a mortal pyramid. Petya and Anatole unloaded the remainder of their magazines through the breach and formed a sheet of suppressive fire, pinning down more enemies. Anatole lobbed a grenade, and suggested to Vladimir that they go.

"If we hang around here, there's no telling when we'll be overrun." Nadia concurred as she loaded a new stripper clip into her pistol.

"I agree, comrade Major. We should focus on getting out of here while we still can."

The grenade exploded outside the breach as Vladimir nodded and motioned for all to leave. But as they started to pack up their weapons and make for the stairs, a loud whizzing sound was heard, emanating from outside and drifting closer with each second. Anatole looked through the breach and saw a grey projectile cutting faster through the air than an African swallow. He gasped and yelled for everyone to scatter.

"INCOMING PANZERSCHRECK!"

No sooner had the words exited his lips when a deafening detonation rocked the generator room to its core and blasted all off their feet. Petya squinted through the smoke to see the damage, and it was devastating.

The projectile landed a hit on the piston engine that had been their cover, and destroyed it into a thousand pieces which scattered in all directions. One large shard of metal, resembling a curved dagger, impaled Anatole from behind as he was running from the exploding engine, and reemerged through his chest cavity. His friend's eyes widened in shock, and his body flew across the room until it pounded the wall, leaving a crack.

Natasha and Petya rushed over to their friend, and held him tightly while he bled out. His forehead was coated in crimson, and his words slow, raspy and weak. Natasha cradled his head and tried to suppress a tear as he breathed his last words.

"Ukhodi, Natasha…tiy khochesh' zhit', shtoby viyiti zamuzh…za Petyu…ne pravda li?" (A/N: Get out of here, Natasha…you want to live to marry…Petya…don't you?)

His head grew heavy and her body along with it. Natasha tried in vain to shut Anatole's eyes, but she could not see through her tears. Another friend lost to a brutal psychopath on some mad pursuit for power. Ken-Goh tugged at her collar, while keeping an eye on the breach.

"O da brost'ye, Natasha!" he screamed in his native tongue. "Nyelzya zdyes' ostavat'sa!" (A/N: Oh, come on, Natasha! We can't stay here!)

"On prav," Petya said quietly. "Nam nuzhny uiti, seichas." (A/N: He's right. We need to leave, now.)

She looked up at her fiancé, her love, and anguish was plastered on his face. His blue eyes were fixed on his deceased friend, and his lips almost hemorrhaged from his incessant biting. If only there was time for another funeral. If only there was a moment's peace. If only this terrible tragedy never came to pass.

Ken-Goh pulled her up, and she bit back a sob, not wanting to leave her dear friend, comrade, neighbor, classmate just yet.

She moved hesitantly towards the stairs to the upper floors, but found another casualty that almost made her heart, and everyone else's stop.

Just beside the stairwell, Nadia held their dear friend and commander Vladimir upright. He had wounded in the blast as well, although not as fatally as Anatole. All eyes drifted to the bloodied rag that was Vladimir's pantleg, where another wedge of metal sliced through his thigh like tissue paper. His face was covered in dirt and soot, and he looked about ready for a hospital bed.

"Oh my god…Volodya!"

"Comrade Major!"

"Jesus, not you, too!"

His friends surrounded him, and Vladimir grimaced as he tried to move.

"It's nothing…just my leg. Help me up, already! They're coming!"

Nadia and Ken-Goh nodded and lifted him up by his arms, shouldering him as one would a heavy knapsack. They started to move towards the stairs, just as another wave of gunmen came in through the smoke, soot, and sorrow.

The female sniper did not want to leave, and only looked on at Anatole's motionless body. His red eyes stared up aimlessly towards the ceiling, his mouth slightly agape as if still soaked in shock. Petya coaxed her to follow.

"Get up the stairs!" her lover and fiancé ordered. "On umer! DAVAITYE, POSHLI!" (A/N: He's dead! COME ON, LET'S GO!)

He pulled her up the stairs and fired a parting burst into an oncoming foe before tossing another grenade. As much as it pained him to leave his old friend and neighbor behind, the stakes were life and death. The price of failure was Dewey capturing all of them…or worse.

They made their way up a spiral staircase leading to the offices, the assembly lines and workbenches. What this factory used to make, none of them could say, nor did they care. They did not see machines as they peered down each corridor but new forms of cover, and potential obstructions.

Upon reaching the second floor, the group was taken completely by surprise as automatic fire swept through their ranks from the assembly line. One bullet landed on Petya's right thigh and made him trip, and another grazed Ken-Goh's upper lip, shaving off a bit of his mustache. But the third was lethal, finding a soft spot in Vladimir's side just above his left hip before exiting through his lower back. Vladimir cried in pain from the wound, and was almost dropped by his two carriers before finding the strength to level his pistol and return fire.

Natasha quickly scoped in and found one gunman, manning a light machine gun mounted on a conveyer belt, and pulled the trigger. Her aim, even when quick on the draw, was quite accurate; though she did not land a shot in the head, bullet to the chest was fatal enough to stop the rapid fire. Petya finished off the second gunman as he landed on his knee, discharging at least ten rounds before the masked man fell dead, his hands grasping a scavenged MP40.

There was no rest, and even as Vladimir bled out, they quickly moved on. Drops of red formed a trail up the stairwell until at last their commander ordered Ken-Goh and Nadia to drop him on a landing, just outside the third level. Petya and Natasha stopped, but their major and friend told them,

"Keep going! Petya, get your platoon in order and have them evacuate the factory. NOW!"

Petya wanted to protest, fearing what would happen if Vladimir was not properly treated. But there were others in his command he had to think of. He sighed resignedly, and, with Natasha in tow, reluctantly left his friend on the metal floors.

Vladimir turned to his right hand, Ken-Goh, the trusted and reliable commander of First Company. His vision became blurry and he thought he was looking through cherry-tinted glasses. With labored breath, he dictated his final orders.

"If you have any more dynamite, give it to me. Set it up around the landing and doorway."

Ken-Goh, normally a tough and somewhat brusque officer, shuddered as he planted charges around the landing and near the threshold. Connecting wires to the individual charges was especially difficult, as his hands could not stop shaking. Was it the constant gunfire? The fear that the enemy would be upon them any minute? The hacking coughs of his superior and he spoke to Nadia?

The major handed the ex-secret policeman his bag, which softly clattered as he removed it off his shoulder.

"There's an audio tape in here…and all of the evidence from our investigation…" Vladimir coughed again, blood spattering on his collar. "Renton and Eureka need to hear that tape. You must get it to them."

"Yes, sir," she whispered, trying her best to contain the tremble in her lips.

"They need to…turn that evidence over…to someone they can trust. When you leave, go find General Chuikov. He will help you…he cares about Renton…and us."

Ken-Goh finished readying the charges, and came to Vladimir with the detonator. His hand weakly grasped the plunger as Ken-Goh wrapped the final wires around the main mounts, keeping an eye on his old friend.

"Ken-Goh…" he breathed.

"Yes, comrade Major?"

"Come on, Ken-Goh, now's not the time to get formal."

"…sorry, Volodya. What is it?"

"I need you to gather the rest of First Company…(cough)…and leave the factory. You will join the rest of battalion…and (cough)…proceed to Point 606. General Chuikov will be there waiting for you. You're in command now, Captain Fyodorev."

Ken-Goh was left speechless, and he did not know whether to cry or shake his best friend's hand. He wished he could say something to Vladimir, how he could tell him that everything would turn out alright, and he would live. In the end, he had nothing to say, other than a firm, resolute 'yes, sir.' Vladimir smiled weakly, and gently nudged his friend in the shoulder.

"Tell Petya he's got First Company now. Look after everyone for me, Ken-Goh. And for God's sake, make sure Renton and Eureka get out alive."

"I will, Volodya. You can count on it."

"I know. I can always count on you…"

Nadia and Ken-Goh stood up and firmly saluted the major before going their separate ways. Nadia continued up the stairs towards the top level where Renton, Eureka, and General Novikov resided. Ken-Goh left down a dark corridor to find the remainder of First Company. Vladimir was left alone, staring down the hallway into an office space.

Each time he blinked, and his vision grew darker, he thought he saw images of his youth. The beautiful streets of Stalingrad. The high skyscrapers, fabulous department stores, and the luxurious riverside café. He heard the laughter of children on the playground, and could make out Renton and Eureka's voices, calling for him to join them in their games. He smelled the taste of home cooking, a hot breakfast made special by his mother and father.

A squad of five gunmen came down the hall, eyeing the major, and calling for him to surrender. Vladimir could only laugh.

"Rentoshka…Eurekasha…"

They came upon him, and found the dynamite laid around them.

"Udachi vam." (A/N: Good luck to you.)

BOOM!

Nadia stopped briefly as she felt the staircase shake with the force of a volcanic eruption, and heard the cries of several dying men. She sighed, wondering if any of this death and loss could have been avoided. The moment of speculation was brief, however, as she knew time was of the essence. She practically hopped up the stairs, carrying Vladimir's bag all the while, until she reached the very top.

Behind an overturned managerial desk, Renton and Eureka were engaged in another gun battle with Dewey's men, who rushed in from the left-side door, screaming like demons. Nadia could only watch as the pair fought off each attacker who hoped to swiftly capture General Novikov. Where was he, anyway?

Further behind and keeping his head down to avoid gunfire, Piotr Nikolayevich kept an eye on both the north and south doors. One tried to sneak around, carrying a scavenged Sturmgewehr-44, and the general called him out.

"Eureka, to your right!"

Eureka spun around, her short dark brown locks swaying like branches on a windy day. Immediately she was greeted with three errant shots around her head which sent her ducking down, lying prone on the concrete floor. She scoped in, and found her target, who was seeking better cover.

As he started to make for a file cabinet, she fired, and turned out to be surprisingly accurate under pressure. A pink mist clouded her scope and the fallen body revealed her damage: a clear bullet between the shooter's eyes. Eureka's eyes widened in amazement at her accuracy as she shifted the bolt. Her months away from combat since Normandy apparently did not diminish her skill.

In her efforts to fend off a flanker, another gunman tossed a grenade through the door and towards Renton and Eureka. It forced them to scatter to different cover, and provided an avenue for the gunman to try and take the general.

Renton fired his rifle, but a bolt-action gun was never suitable in close-quarters combat. It failed to slow down the attacker and the grenade detonated, destroying the desk into splinters. The attacker bounded over the remains of the desk, and seemed poised to recapture Piotr Nikolayevich. But he had a surprise up his sleeve.

The elderly general was armed himself, and stood up behind cover to produce a semiautomatic pistol. He unloaded the entire magazine into the attacker's face, stopping the advance cold. As the attacker fell with a heavy sigh, Renton and Eureka could only gaze in amazement at Piotr Nikolayevich's skill to fight.

Nadia coughed, and made her presence known to all in the room.

The trio's heads swiveled to the back, and saw their protector, for all intents and purposes. Nadia's face was covered in soot and dirt, and gunpowder clung to her wild blonde hair, a pungent perfume. Her blue eyes looked tired, worn from the stress, but she still was ready for battle, pistol cocked and loaded. In her hand, she carried a rucksack normally worn by Vladimir. She shifted her foot, and addressed Renton.

"Thurston, the time has come for us to go."

"Have you found the way out, Nadia?" Renton asked with urgency.

"The north entrance is fucked all to hell. We can only go out the south way. Follow me, and we'll be gone in under a minute."

However, they couldn't get too far as the exit was blown open with grenades. The former assassin cursed underneath her breath as the smoke surrounded her group like a menacing fog. How did those ruffians know where they were so quickly?

The answer became apparent by who stepped across the threshold and into the room. A tall Red Army officer at least in his 30s, with a head of grey hair tied behind him and a dark olive rain cape draped over his shoulders. The icy blue eyes that flung daggers through the smoke sent a sickening chill through all of their bodies.

Dewey. The man who sought Renton Thurston's blood, and employed his old rival to get it. The man who would gladly set the whole world ablaze for his own ends. The man who always seemed a step ahead.

Nadia hardly had the strength to speak and stepped back into the door. For all he knew, she was dead, and God only knew what he would do if he saw her. Eureka felt conflicted, drowning in a raging whirlpool of emotions. Her brother was someone she both dreaded and longed to see, if only to get answers from him. Renton only glared long and hard at the eldest Novikov son as he stepped in, wearing a sardonic smile and carrying an almost nostalgic tone in his voice.

"Well," he greeted familiarly, "if it isn't the world-famous American Russian and his bride-to-be. It's been quite a while, has it not?"

"Spare me the pleasantries, Dewey," Renton berated, his voice hard as mountain rocks. "What the hell are you doing here?" Dewey grasped as his heart, pretending to be offended by Renton's sharp remarks.

"My, the pup has finally grown fangs. Well, Rentoshka, if you must know, I have come to recollect my father. He hasn't told me the attack codes for all Soviet forces yet. I need him if my plan is to ever get off the ground."

"Your plan is toothless! You don't have your precious uranium bomb or your German madman of a doctor!"

"Be that as it may, I still follow through on everything I start, and I have no intention of stopping now. Stand aside, and I might let you all live."

Eureka, not wanting to lose any more loved ones, stepped in front of Piotr Nikolayevich like a shield of might, her hands tightly gripping her rifle. With a dark glare of death, Eureka asked Dewey,

"And what if Father doesn't want to go with you?" Dewey looked towards his baby sibling and frowned with annoyance.

"What do you think, little sister? I'll take him by force if need be."

Having heard enough, Renton stepped in front of both Eureka and Piotr Nikolayevich, his expression hardening as he kept his eyes toward the taller adult man.

"We are NOT going to let that happen."

Dewey closed his eyes and sighed deeply with disappointment. But a second later, he flashed an almost psychotic smirk.

"Good."

Almost right on cue, five young men in dark olive uniforms leaped forward and charged towards Renton, Nadia, Eureka, and Piotr Nikolayevich. Renton did not hesitate and fired one shot from his rifle from the hip, and killed the lead man with a hit to the torso. Nadia, peeking across the threshold of the door rapidly discharged four cartridges at the closest gunmen to her and managed to slow them enough with wounds in his side and leg. Even Eureka, meek and timid as Dewey remembered her, stood firm against the fourth as he barreled through.

However, she did not anticipate how swift the fifth man was, for he dodged two of her gunshots and proceeded to use a dagger against Eureka, aiming a dagger at her heart. Luckily, she side-stepped and used the butt of her rifle and swung it at the gunman's stomach.

With all five men knocked out, all eyes remained on the prodigal eldest Novikov son. He rubbed his chin, as if in deep pensive thought, although Renton knew he was planning something else.

"We've fought plenty of your goons before," Eureka quipped. "What made you think this time would be any different?"

"A man can still dream, little sister. And for me, there is only one thing that is preventing my dream from becoming a reality."

He reached for his side and produced a pistol, but did not aim it at his father as all expected. The officer turned it instead on the young American.

"I told you before, Father. Every man has his price."

Renton did not flinch, but only stood like an old statue. Dewey turned one hate-filled eye at the young boy, the thorn in his side, the catalyst for all of this madness and death long after it should have ended.

"You know, boy, if it weren't for you, none of this would be happening in the first place! If you were not in our lives, I would have no reason to do any of this at all!"

"Bull-fucking-shit, Dewey," Renton shouted. "You started all of this because you were jealous, just like Chertov. You and him are just right for each other. Wanting revenge to boost your own ego and punishing those who disagreed with you!" The colonel laughed at the comparison.

"That little amoeba? He was always too arrogant and vengeful for his own good! I really ought to thank you for disposing of him, Thurston. Lieutenant Chertov would have only gotten in the way if he stayed on. He never cared about the dream for which I fight; he was just on a revenge trip." Renton winced at the memory of Chertov's suicide still fresh on his mind.

"So, that's all there is to you, isn't it? Using whoever you have as pawns. Chertov, Nadia, Roza, and the other agents from two years ago…! You're a sick man, Dewey Novikov. What happened to you? This quest of hatred and revenge is pointless. The war is almost over and here you are attacking us over such petty reasons!"

"Renton's right!" Eureka chimed in. "All you have ever done is tear our family apart with your scheming. Do you have any idea what you've done to us all?!"

"Roza is dead because of you…" Nadia whispered to the wind, her face concealed in the darkness of the stairwell.

Dewey craned his head over to his youngest sibling, and saw how starkly and diametrically different she was from her youth. Always she was quiet, reserved, somewhat afraid. To see her holding a rifle, wearing the uniform of a soldier, and speaking with a fire in her belly almost made Dewey forget it was Eureka at all. He spoke harshly to her, as one would to a badly-behaved child.

"If that is what it takes to save us all from ruin, then so be it. Your Yankee lover there is why I did all of this, you stupid girl! The instant our fathers shook hands was the instant we were suspected by the state! As long as he lives, and you with him, we are all traitors! Do you want your whole family dragged off to Siberia? To starve to death in the Gulag?! HE'S THE REASON OUR FAMILY HAS BEEN TORN ASUNDER!"

Renton was silent, having heard this before. It was no secret that the Novikovs' association with him and his father cost them everything now. Even though he loved Eureka dearly, and would do anything for her, he could not deny that part of this suffering was because he was a foreigner. Renton looked down at his shoes before he returned his gaze to the oldest son of the Novikov family.

"You're right, Dewey. Your family wouldn't have been targeted if not for me and father being at Stalingrad. We made a terrible mistake. We never meant to cause harm, but the damage is done, already, isn't it?"

He took two firm steps forward, and outstretched his arms.

"If you need to take a life, take mine instead. If it means ending the bloodshed, if it means sparing my remaining friends and allies, then get it over with. I'm sick of people dying because of me."

There was a daunting silence after Renton's statement. Nadia, Eureka, and Piotr Nikolayevich stood, bug-eyed, at the American Russian. What on earth was he thinking?! Did he have a plan under his sleeve? Was he serious? If he died, everything they had done up to now would have been in vain. The colonel smiled in surprise, and returned his aim to the American.

"That easy? That's a nice change. As you wish, Thurston. Thanks for not resisting any longer."

Both Nadia and Eureka protested, not wanting another person, especially not one so near and dear to them, to be brutally snuffed out. Dewey's finger curled around the trigger, and Renton closed his eyes, silently praying. He prayed for a better and more peaceful life for Eureka and those who remained; it was the least they deserved.

BANG! BANG!

Strangely, Renton felt nothing. Not the sharp pain or piercing sensation one gets from a bullet wound. Indeed, there was not a scratch on him when he opened his eyes. If he hadn't died, then who…?

On the ground, merely inches in front of him, an elderly man in his late 50s bled from his chest cavity, forming a small morbid pool of dark scarlet around him. Piotr Nikolayevich Novikov had jumped in front, and took the bullets meant for him.

Dewey, his eyes wide and the muzzle of his pistol still smoking, backed away in horror. Not only had he shot his own father, but shot himself in the foot as well; the attack codes would now die with him. For that, his father was truly brilliant.

"Father…"

"FATHER, NO!" Eureka screamed, her grey eyes flooded with tears.

The young girl rushed to her father's side, and tried to lift him up, not minding the blood smearing on her uniform and her hands. Renton came beside her and both were lost, staring into Piotr Nikolayevich's face. There was a hint of a smile, veiled beneath the blood-saliva broth that slowly seeped from his lips.

"Why?" Renton whispered, holding back tears.

"Because…" the general said weakly, "the future…belongs to you. You are…Eureka's happiness, now…more than I am, or her brothers…"

The general's kind eyes, wavering and trembling, glanced over Eureka's, welling up and flooding with tears. His gloved hand stretched out and caressed his daughter's cheek lovingly.

"You must live, Eurekasha. Promise me…that when this all ends, you will go back home. You will…live with Renton. He is family…and he always…will…"

Piotr Nikolayevich's breathing became heavier, shallower, and a sheet of sweat glistened on his wrinkled brow. Renton continued holding him as Eureka no longer felt strength in her arms, and shielded her eyes with bloodstained hands. The whirlpool of emotions grew more violent, and more clashed with greater force. The deeper she sank, the more she clawed for something to pull her out. All she could grasp was a dark, sinister, bitter sensation.

She raised her head, blood smeared on her face, and faced her eldest brother. He still stood, his grip on his pistol shaking, soaked in the shock of his murder. Looking at his sister, Dewey saw no grief in his sister's eyes. No sadness or pain. Only anger. Anger at having been beaten and kicked and disowned by an unforgiving, violent world. A world made dark and cruel by people like him.

"YOU!" she screeched. "This is your fault! You talk about saving your family? Protecting us from the Party? Don't make me laugh! Vsyo, shto tiy znayesh' dyelat'—UNICHTOZHIT'!" (A/N: All you know to do is DESTROY!)

Without even allowing time for a rejoinder from her brother, Eureka snatched Renton's rifle and charged the colonel. She no longer saw her eldest sibling. She only saw the enemy. Everyone who ruined her life was the enemy. Everyone who forced her to flee was the enemy. But even with his scheme in shambles by his own hubris, the enemy was not ready to die just yet.

Dewey produced a small canister from behind his back, and threw it to the floor. All were enveloped in a grey mist, but Eureka only kept charging, determined to make her enemy pay. They _all_ had to pay for what they did to her.

The colonel exited the way he came, and said to two soldiers waiting outside the threshold,

"Take her."

The two soldiers burst through the door, hoping to slow down the anger-filled bull, but only proved to be a meat shield. One soldier fell from her bayonet, stabbed in the heart with a sickening squelch of flesh and a painful moan. Eureka kicked her victim off, struggling to pull out the bayonet from the man's ribs. The other soldier tried to club her over the head with the butt of his SVT-40 rifle, but only earned her wrath.

She swiftly dodged the attack, and delivered a kick to the man's groin, weakening him and knocking him down. With all of her might she swung the rifle like a bludgeon, and connected with his jaw. A few errant teeth and a gout of blood were knocked out as he fell. A low, animalistic snarl from Eureka made even Renton's blood run cold as she brought down her rifle like a sledgehammer on the soldier, bashing his face in until there was nothing left but bruises and blood.

Eureka looked down the dark stairwell leading to the south entrance, and saw the hem of the colonel's rain cape disappear behind a corner. She growled, and cursed in Russian.

"Vernis' i srazhaisya, proklyatiy trus!"(A/N: Come back and fight, cursed coward!)

She ran down, completely forgetting Renton and Nadia, still tending to the dying General Piotr Nikolayevich Novikov. Everything had disappeared. Renton was no longer important, and neither was her dead father, or anyone else she lost in this terrible melee. All that remained was to exact revenge, and kill anyone who got in her way.

Upon entering the second floor, Eureka was greeted by the cacophony of gunfire and the pall of cordite and smoke. At least four gunmen were in combat with a squad of First Company which was pinned on the far side of the room. She looked around, and found to her surprise (and now manic delight) that she sat right on the enemy's flank.

She raised her rifle to her shoulder and lined her crosshairs up at one gunman holding a light machine gun, suppressing the squad. A sickly, grim smile crept across Eureka's lips as she curled her finger around the trigger.

"Drop dead, svoloch," she said sadistically.

And just like that, the bullet pierced through the smoke and hit the throat of the unsuspecting gunman.

That earned the attention of the rest of the squad, and Eureka did not waste any time in going on the attack, relieving the beleaguered Red Army squad. After cycling the bolt, she charged again and collided with the fourth gunman who tried to empty his PPSh-41 into her. She was too quick and too small of a target for him, and she soon barreled into him with another violent stab of her bayonet, this time in his neck.

The gunman crumpled to the floor with a gurgle and produced her M1895 pistol, pointing it at the remaining group. Seeing they were outflanked and facing a demon rather than a soldier, they all laid down their arms and offered surrender.

Eureka, who kicked the last dead gunman over, kept her revolver on them and ordered them to stand up. She did not even pay the Red Army squad any heed when they thanked her before disappearing to find and repel new enemies.

"Hands in the air, scum!" Eureka demanded, "And stay on the wall!"

Two of the three gunmen did as they were told but one of them was desperate to fight back, no matter what. And so, producing a secret dagger from his waist pack, the orange haired soldier charged at Eureka quick as a flash and lashed out.

Eureka nearly tripped as the knife grazed her left cheek. In rage, she retaliated with a quick and strong elbow to the nose, breaking it. Groaning in pain and covering his nose with his free hand, the redhead had no time to counter attack.

"You think you're a soldier, do you?!" she screeched before shooting her pistol at the gunman's head.

A red mist clouded her vision as he fell over to his side like a lead-filled doll. Even though he was dead, and the two gunmen were too afraid to do anything, Eureka grabbed her rifle and swung it across the dead man's head again and again with the might of a lumberjack chopping wood. Each time she struck him, the butt of her rifle grew redder and redder. The squelch and thudding of flesh was sickening to anyone in that room, but Eureka paid it no mind. All she felt was anger. They had to pay. All of them had to pay for what they did to her! What they did to her family!

"DON'T…FUCK…WITH…ME!" Eureka screamed with fury.

She slammed her rifle butt upon the redhead man's corpse again and again, until the corpse was nearly unknown to the naked eye. Dark memories flashed before her eyes. The memories she fought desperately to suppress. Memories of her days of struggle in the snow-coated streets of Stalingrad. Where she lost her younger brother. When Chertov sought to kill Renton so many times. When she was forced to kill in Normandy, and brushed with death countless times. Everything she had to suffer came crashing down on her psyche like a tower of bricks.

The broken Russian girl raised her rifle to strike another blow, but was stopped when she felt a gentle touch on her right shoulder. A rage-filled growl shook the room and the weapon clattered to the ground, her hands clenching into tight, angry fists.

She swung not only her arms but pivoted her whole body to strike whoever was behind her, and her fists landed against something hard. Hard, but not enough to break her. She panted, hoping it would be enough, but a familiar voice snapped her out of the madness into which she sunk so deeply.

"It takes more than that to knock me down, Eurekasha."

Just then, the darkness in her eyes dissipated and she looked up to see the source of the voice. A tall man with darkly colored, greying hair and jade hued eyes, looking on in a mixture of disbelief and despair.

Renton embraced her tightly, as if to squeeze the anger and hatred out of her body. His breaths were heavy, filled with concern, and his hands gently rubbed her, trying to sooth away every ounce of trauma. She saved him from madness more times than she could count, but never did she think she would need saving from him. Perhaps the shame, more than the loss, is what stimulated the tears growing in her eyes.

"This is not you," Renton whispered, his voice desperate and worn. "This is not the Eureka I've loved since I was a child. Please…don't go where I can't follow you…"

In a split second, any bloodlust she felt was gone. The anger, the murderous intent, the sadistic glee in killing for revenge evaporated. The toxic whirlpool disappeared into an ocean of regret, shame, guilt, and most of all, sorrow.

Her knees gave away, her strength leaving her as Eureka sobbed her heart out. She sobbed over the constant losses and the constant dangers in her life. She sobbed over how much she had to lose to gain something in return. All she could do was utter the monotonous cry:

"I'm sorry…I'm sorry...I'm sorry…I'm so sorry!"

"I know, darling," Renton consoled. "I know."

It didn't matter that the other two enemy soldiers fled the scene. It didn't matter that the battle still raged. It didn't even matter if they were all alone, unarmed. What mattered was the warmth surrounding Eureka, soothing her into a loving, gentle embrace.

Just be. Just let the pain flow. Let the tears stream freely. The years of pent up grief have already shown its ugly colors. Let the comfort of the man of your dreams mend your trauma and woes. Just be.

"Take me home, Rentoshka," Eureka uttered pitifully. "I've had enough of this."

»»»»»

" _Eureka, listen carefully. Inside my bag, you will find this audio tape, a fully typed report on Dewey's plot, and all of the evidence we managed to gather from Moscow, Warsaw, and Berlin. I wanted to explain just why Dewey tried to do what he did. It is important that, if I die, you take this to the right people, preferably the members of the Red Army General Staff. If you can get one of them to believe you, the alliance can still be saved._

" _You might be wondering why I did not take it to them myself. To be honest, it's because you have a better chance of being left alone after this. I found out just as we invaded Germany proper that our family would be targeted in Stalin's next purge. It's why Dewey has it in for Renton, and why he is trying to start a new war with the British and Americans. Our family has been suspected of treason ever since we met Renton more than seven years ago. You're an American citizen now, and you live under Renton and his family's protection. You have immunity in this case._

" _I hate to say it, little sister, but our brother is not the real problem here. He's a warning sign of something much larger. The alliance that defeated Germany is collapsing. Even when we were still fighting, I could see it at every staff meeting. Our countries' leaders distrust each other and will do anything to gain an advantage over the other. The battle lines are being drawn for a new conflict, but it's not one I want any part of._

" _It's not like I don't love my country, or that I don't want to see it succeed. But meeting Renton that summer taught me more about America than I could ever learn from a Party boss or a school teacher. He taught me something none of them will ever admit: the Americans are just like us. They are just ordinary people doing what they believe is right; that's all._

" _Eureka, I am most likely going to die, but whatever happens, don't blame yourself for any of this, and don't blame Renton either, okay? He did everything for you. He loves you deeply, and I can see that. Don't blame him for this; he may be all you have before this is over. Please, Eureka, this is all I ask._

" _With luck, if I do manage to get out of this alive, and when the war ends, I'll come visit you in America. That's a promise. Keep well, my little sister."_


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: We have finally reached the last battle of the Historical Eureka Seven series, and it's another long one. Though, given how combat has been a favorite aspect of everyone who has read the series, no one has really complained, so why should I? There is one more character death waiting for you when you read, so be wary.**

 **Tomorrow I will post the conclusion to this story. At long last, after more than five years of writing and rewriting this series, it's finally coming to an end. I still can't believe it because when you have devoted so much of your spare time and energy to such a massive project as this, you almost think it will never end. Sadly, it is coming to an end now, and when I post the final chapter tomorrow, I will let everyone know what is going to happen now.**

 **Until then, read on, review, and enjoy.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-two**

 **July 8** **th** **, 1945**

 **Somewhere in Soviet-occupied Germany**

"What happened, lad?" General Chuikov asked with concern.

Renton could hardly speak, as every time he opened his mouth and his vocal chords vibrated, he felt this sharp, stinging pain in his stomach. He was not seriously wounded in the last battle, but he may as well have been stabbed, and the blade never removed. He could only choke and squeak as he made words. The steely veteran eyes of Chuikov recognized the picture. A man who suffered from seeing too much destruction, too much suffering, too much death.

"They…he…he killed Volodya and Piotr Nikolayevich," he finally managed, his voice straining. "They're gone, General."

A moment of silence passed, and Chuikov leaned back in his seat. The air suddenly tasted of lead, and the veteran general's teeth gnawed at his lower lip bitterly. Another loss that needn't have been suffered. He could tell the young boy's heart was breaking, and he was merely searching for a way out of his dark, blood-soaked nightmare.

"Where has Colonel Novikov gone, now? Your team beat them back, didn't you?"

"Yes, we did."

"His scheme is in shambles, now. The colonel will never have the attack codes, thanks to General Novikov. All he can do is run. So where has he gone?" Renton shook his head in despair, staring at his muddy boots.

"I don't know, and I don't really care anymore, either. I just want all of this to end…"

He held his head in his hands, fingers parsing through the frayed and greying locks of his hair. How much had he aged from this ordeal alone? Renton could not recall this kind of feeling, the feeling of hopelessness and detachment, in any of his previous ventures. Not in Stalingrad. Not when he was hounded by Chertov. Not even in Normandy, after the deaths of Jacques, Charles, and Ray.

"Listen, lad," Chuikov said, leaning over his table, "I know where you are. Everything seems meaningless, but what's important right now is to find where the colonel has gone. Any ideas can help us, here."

Renton seemed to wade through a mental swamp, trying to reach dry land. But the further he searched, the more lost he became, wondering just what on earth he had stumbled into. An alliance that broke Germany's back now dying, former partners vying with each other over new, more destructive weapons, and a sociopathic officer who, in his own pursuit of saving family, only destroyed it in the process. Looking back on it, this may have been one giant mistake. Coming here only entangled Renton in a fight of which he wanted no part, and all but broke Eureka.

"Mischa did say something to me after Dewey retreated."

Chuikov blinked, and knitted his hands together like an artisan's crochet.

"She said something about an old hotel in the south, near Bavaria or somewhere. It was a place Dewey talked about as somewhere he'd hole up if things went awry. She has nothing more solid than that."

Petr looked up and found himself lost in the veteran general's eyes. A friend of General Novikov, and a lifelong comrade, this man had looked out for all of them. Even if the bond that held the Americans and Soviets together frayed, Renton took comfort in knowing that at least one man still wanted the best for him…and for Eureka.

"Does the place sound familiar to you, General Chuikov?"

"Da, it does. There was a vacation resort for Nazi bureaucrats in the south, right near the demarcation line between the Soviet and American occupation zones. Last I heard anything about it, it was looted by our troops just before the surrender."

"I see. Rather fitting for him to go there, isn't it?"

"Perhaps. I can afford you one battalion of support in clearing that place out. It's likely Colonel Novikov will move again before long; until he has a new scheme, all he can do is run and hide."

"In that case, I will leave this last battle to you, General."

Renton moved to go, and Chuikov was visibly taken aback. He raised an eyebrow and smoothed out his wild dark hair.

"You're not fighting, this time, lad?"

"I've done enough killing to last me 100 lifetimes, sir," he said abruptly. "There's only so much I can take."

Chuikov only sat in silence and watched as a Hero of the People, a kindly boy, and one of the bravest men he ever knew walk out the door. It was not unheard of for soldiers to suffer from after-battle experiences. In his years in the military it was a feeling he himself was acquainted with. The men called it different names. Shell shock. Soldier's heart. Battle fatigue. The warrior's disease. It clearly did not discriminate when it came to victims. Even so, General Chuikov never imagined that he, of all the soldiers he ever commanded, would be so deeply affected that he would be all but functionless.

»»»»»

 **Three hours later**

Nobody said a word as they gathered around the campfire for what they believed to be the final time for any sort of respite. The stakes were high, as well as the tension. Three more lives were lost at the hands of one madman who was determined to shatter the peace so hard-won in Europe.

Petya looked around and noticed they were missing someone else in their circle.

"Where's Eureka?" he whispered to Natasha. She shook her head and looked on bitterly at the flames.

"Renton said she couldn't bring herself to show up. And she hasn't eaten much of anything." Petya bit his lower lip.

"Dammit…she's really broken down, huh?"

"I can't say that I blame her. This is hard on all of us."

"I know."

Two figures quietly walked towards the dancing orange flames, conversing and wondering what on earth they could do now. What started as a search for answers and an aloof older brother had turned sinister, darker, and more tangled than a barrel of snakes. It was more than just Holland's brother now, and even Holland himself realized just how deep down he had fallen down this rabbit hole.

"If I had known it was going to turn out like this," he said quietly, "I never would have involved you, Rentoshka. I made a mistake." Renton smiled ruefully as he approached the circle.

"That's a first for you, Holland. I'm impressed that you can admit that. We can at least start fresh now."

"Start fresh? How?"

"My offer is still on the table from last time. Let's just get out of here while we can. Leave this behind. There's not even a real reason to pursue this anymore, is there? Dewey's plan is toothless, and General Chuikov already offered to finish the work."

Holland looked down at his beyond battered combat boots and contemplated. After losing such important people in his life, he also found a silver lining amongst the darkness. Perhaps escaping the nightmare was the only way to end it. Perhaps leaving now would solve their troubles with ease.

But was that what the others wanted? What those they lost would want? Holland looked behind him and saw everyone by the fire, sans Eureka.

"Maybe…we should let the guys know, first? They deserve that much, at least."

"Fair enough. We'll put it to them. Anyone who wants to come with us can go."

"Right," Holland agreed, nodding solemnly. "Well, let's not leave them hanging, yeah?"

And with that, he stood up and dusted off his pants. If they were to really do this, they should at least have a consensus.

The two men sat down on logs at the far end, and all eyes turned to them. Hungry, tired, and raw from over a month of pursing and being pursued, Renton could not help but wonder if any of them were up to finishing this. Was there anything left _to_ finish at all?

"What's the word, Lieutenant?" Sergeant Weaver asked.

Holland glanced over at Renton, who was fiddling with a greyed-out lock of his normally oak brown hair. Renton sighed heavily, as if ready for bed.

"I spoke with General Chuikov a few hours ago. Dewey is heading south, towards the demarcation line between the occupation zones. He's in an old hotel near Bavaria. The general said he can afford to send a battalion down to clear it out and capture him."

"Is that where we're heading next, Thurston?" Nadia asked.

Renton's eyes slowly glanced up, and could see exhaustion in every face. They _had_ to have gotten sick of this as well. They _had_ to want out as badly as he did, he thought. It had been a long, bloody, and twisting road filled with betrayals, ulterior motives and dirty politics. What started as a hunt for a trouble-making brother had turned into a nascent geopolitical struggle, and between two allies, no less.

"We don't have to go anywhere if we don't want to," Renton said, his voice gravelly.

Silence held everyone in a vice grip, as the others, militiamen and Red Army soldiers looked at each other with perplexing stupor. What did Renton mean by that?

"Thanks to us, Dewey has no cards left to play," Holland continued. "All he can do now is run until someone catches him."

"With that in mind," Renton concluded, "it might be best to just cut our losses and leave the cleanup to someone else."

A small murmur of confusion and disagreement ran rings around the bonfire. It was unlike Renton to suggest quitting, especially when they were so close to finishing it all. They were in a prime position to finally capture the colonel and bring him to justice, and Renton seriously considered just leaving everything behind?

"I know things have been really tough, and Chuikov has given us an out. I can't speak for everyone here, but we've lost a lot of friends along the way, and I don't want to see anyone else die. Anyone who wants to come with us can go."

"We can leave this all behind, lads," Holland said finally.

Another bout of silence and more concerned murmuring. It was certainly tempting, to say the least. None of them could deny the horrendous casualties taken in getting to this point. The militia was at just over half-strength, and First Company had taken a massive beating, to say nothing about the losses of both Vladimir and General Novikov in a single blow. One had to wonder if there was any more to be gained from further pursuit, especially with an enemy who now had nowhere to go.

One soldier, however, thought differently.

"Hell no, I'm not leaving," a female voice said resolutely.

Holland looked up and saw a woman standing in her militia uniform, and by her insignia on the sleeves, she was a sergeant. Talho Yukieva, his right hand and the one love of his life.

"We went through a lot to get here, and if we're just going to walk away now, then what will all of that sacrificed time and lives have meant? I'm not leaving until we finish what we've started."

"Talho…" Holland mouthed quietly.

"Dewey is _your_ family, Lieutenant, and he killed _your_ father and _your_ brothers. You should want to finish this more than any of us. Even if we do what you're suggesting, do you truly believe he's going to stop? Do you really believe he won't come back and terrorize us all again? We can't just walk away now, not when we have him cornered!"

Weaver nodded his head, along with the others in the militia. The worst thing one could do to a cornered enemy is give him a means to escape. There was no way to tell if Dewey would come back, stronger, and devise a new plan after being defeated. For others, the reasons were not as pragmatic or strategic.

"Anatole and Dmitri's deaths still hang over me," Petya thought aloud, staring into the flames. "They should not have died like that, victims of a madman. They should have died in Berlin, fighting for the Motherland and to destroy fascism. If we walk away now…"

The young lieutenant picked up an errant twig and tossed it into the fire, contempt in his muscles.

"…it would be a disservice to them."

Petya's blue eyes stared through the fire at Renton's, which were lost, desperate, numb. His nerves were shot and his mind all but broken; he could hardly blame his old friend and comrade for feeling this way. But even so, what meaning would the sacrifices of the past have? They fought to end conquest, to end tyranny and mad schemes of domination.

"If I ducked out of fighting now," Ken-Goh pondered, stroking his mustache, "I don't think I could ever live with myself. Renton, you need to understand something; for soldiers like us, what you're asking is like running away."

The captain shifted his body to face his old friend, clearly lost and searching for a means of escape from this hellish nightmare. But there was a light at the end of this dark tunnel, and the only way to reach it was to push forward.

"I don't want to fight because I have a grudge against the colonel or anything, or that I want to avenge Anatole and the others. There's no way for me to phrase it, but I _need_ to finish this fight now."

Ken-Goh looked on longingly into the fire and thought he could see the silhouette of Vladimir. Anatole. Dmitri. Everyone who had fought so hard and died so valiantly on this long road from defeat to victory in this, the greatest war the world had ever known.

"Maybe it's just because I'm a soldier," he mused, chuckling ruefully. "I don't really know the reason why, but all I know is we still have a mission to complete, and I don't accept failure. Walking away now would be failure."

More and more voices chimed in, demanding that they stay, citing all and every reason imaginable to continue the fight to the end. Some for pride, some for closure, and some for mere recognition in doing something, but all were sincere. Neither Renton nor Holland needed to hear more, and only looked to each other knowingly. Like it or not, this was a fight to the finish. They had the initiative, and it would be suicidal to give it up now.

»»»»»

 **July 9** **th** **, 1945**

 **Somewhere near Bavaria, Germany**

General Chuikov was both relieved and reassured to hear Renton's refusal for help the following morning, since it only confirmed that he was intent on finishing what he started. In a way, his was a struggle that every soldier had faced throughout this great war: whether to stand with courage, or sit on the sidelines. Renton Thurston, despite his wary state, and the likelihood that he would never take up a rifle again after this last fight, at least had the courage to stay on to see the end of this madness.

The Red Army moved quickly to track down the last-known hideout of Colonel Dewey Novikov. It was just as Mischa said to Renton. Dewey had a knack for choosing former Nazi facilities to use for his own purposes. Whether it was an old castle, a laboratory in the woods, or a former resort, he was not above working with former enemies to achieve his ends. Sadly, it was not something unique to Dewey.

Commissar Pozharsky proved that if it came to gaining an edge or developing a new weapon, no tactic was too low, and no method was off-limits. Renton only prayed that this would be the end of such nefarious entanglements. Even now, at the end, he could not comprehend how this search just spiraled into something much darker, much murkier and much messier. It was only confirmation for him that this would be his last foray into the world of battles, wars, and politics.

A small country farmhouse overlooking the resort served as their safehouse, and once again, Renton found himself alone. He paced along the trail leading out from the house and stood on a hill, looking down onto the resort.

It was quite swanky for a hideout, or at least he imagined it would be, before Soviet soldiers came by to loot the place before the surrender. The hotel itself had several floors and was built in a neoclassical style, as was common during the Nazi regime. Its austere, somewhat bare relief reminded Renton of the Roman senate house, or the home of the emperor. Indeed, it was the dream of many a Nazi bureaucrat to build a new empire that would surpass Rome, a marvel for the world to see and remember.

Renton could not help but laugh. The delusional visions of grandeur were only destined to fade away, written off as the fever dreams of madmen.

"To think _this_ is the place Dewey has chosen to hide."

"Fitting, isn't it?" said a female Slavic voice from behind him.

He peeked over his shoulder, and saw Nadia, dressed in her old NKVD uniform. He had to wonder why she clung to it so desperately, when it was clear the façade of obedient Party member was long past. Perhaps it was merely to cover her true feelings.

Nadia gazed down at the resort somewhat despondently, as if she were a goddess on high looking at the hubris of man. Her wild blonde hair waltzed in the breeze, almost platinum from the massive stress she had suffered throughout the month. When this was over, he thought, where would she go? Who would she be?

"The madman who sought to start another conflict faces his defeat in the resort of previous madmen."

"Indeed. He has nowhere to go, this time, unless he's learned to fly." Nadia smiled and lightly scoffed.

"That may be his only option now! Either that, or end up in the hands of the Americans."

"He won't get far, no matter what happens, but I suspect he won't give up without a fight."

"You may be right about that, Thurston. He is a stubborn man; I've learned that much from chasing him this whole time."

Renton nodded, and slowly turned his body to face his 'minder' and bodyguard. What kind of future awaited her when this battle was finally won? Could she even come back with all of them to America?

"Do you know where Eureka is?" he asked, brushing away a lock of his greying hair.

"She is in the bedroom of the farmhouse, just where she's been since we came here." Nadia glanced up at the farmhouse, and eyed a window on the second floor. "I'm worried about her, Thurston. She has not spoken to anyone since…what happened."

"Would you speak to anyone after losing your father and brother in one blow?" Nadia shook her head.

"Can't say I would. She has lost so much in this war for someone so young…much like you, Thurston. It's cruel."

"The world has a way of being like that. But I have to believe things will be better for her, and for everyone else."

"She hasn't eaten anything, either," Nadia added, somberly. "For two days, in fact. I know she won't bounce back so soon, but still…it can't be healthy to just hole up in a small room."

"It isn't, but I can't blame her. I was in a similar state not too long ago."

Renton blinked, and for a fleeting instant, he saw all the friends and family he had lost in this long, bloody struggle. No, it would take time to recover and repair a fractured mind. But she had to come back from this, if only for herself. Just as he did.

"I lost many people I cared about deeply to get here. It would be easy for me to just board myself up in my home and shun everyone. I almost did, were it not for you coming to my graduation and setting me straight."

"I really didn't do much," Nadia quipped, "other than give you a proper nudge in the right direction. Lieutenant Novikov isn't the most graceful with those." Renton laughed.

"No, he isn't. He's more of a doer than a talker." He looked up at the farmhouse and started to slowly climb up the hill. "I should say something to her before I go."

Nadia closed her eyes, in a pensive state. This was going to be possibly the last time they would be together like this. If they both managed to survive, that is. She reckoned now was a good time to finally make a confession.

"Before you go…there is something I need to get off my chest, if you don't mind?"

Renton stopped in his tracks, and looked back at her. She probably had the most to lose out of all of them by merely associating with them. Her life in Russia was gone, and she would have to completely start over after this. But what on earth could she do? Where could she go?

"Two years ago, we were enemies. Two different people walking on different roads in life. Before I knew the truth, I was simply doing my duty as a State Security agent, taking part in deadly work to make ends meet."

Nadia looked up at Renton, her light blue eyes telling a tale of hardship and accomplishments.

"I knew that things wouldn't sit well when I returned to Bellforest, but I never thought we would ever join forces like this. Life works in mysterious ways." Renton smiled.

"They certainly do. I appreciate you standing with me, Nadia. It must be difficult to know that your whole life will be left behind after this. What will you do when we go back?" The blonde haired adult woman shrugged her shoulders.

"Good question. I've been thinking about it lately. With Roza gone and 909 locked up for the rest of her life, I'm on my own. Perhaps I can work at an office, or go back to college or study as a journalist."

She sighed, somewhat regrettably, as if knowing that the future would not be an easy path to walk.

"Honestly, I doubt I'll have a steady life afterwards. I've been an NKVD officer all my life. It's been my dream goal. Can I really lead a simple life like you, after what I've done?"

"If you were able to turn your back on everything you knew in order to do what's right, there's no reason for you not to live the life of your choosing. We all make our own destinies, and forge our own paths. No one else can do it for us."

Nadia stared slightly wide eyed at Renton's way of thinking. She never really thought of it in such a way. How was it possible for someone like him to speak like a sage, and have the advice of a scholar? If only there were more people like him in this world…!

"You are very wise for your age, Thurston."

"Thank you, Nadia. For everything."

Renton moved to leave and speak to Eureka, but Nadia stopped him. A heavy, gloved hand rested on his shoulder, and the distance between them rapidly shrunk to that of an eyelash's length. The oak brown-haired lad was somewhat taken aback, and expected her to say something more, but nothing could have prepared him for what came next.

Gently and with care, as if handling a fine oil painting, the former assassin closed her eyes and pressed her pearl soft, pink colored lips to Renton's rough, chapped ones. Renton's jade eyes nearly popped out of his sockets in surprise, but he could not say anything. Was this really happening right now? Nadia never gave any hints of her attraction to him!

All he was reminded of was the embrace of Jane, and her lips on his before he left for Stalingrad the first time. Yet again, just as he did then, he had inadvertently won another girl's heart. Was it a curse, or was it a gift?

Renton gently touched his bottom lip, mouth slightly agape in shock. Nadia only smiled brightly.

"I think that's why so many other girls fawn over you."

"Nadia…how long have you…you know that Eureka and I…!" The former assassin only laughed at Renton's embarrassment.

"Yes, I know," she said, chuckling. "But a girl can't just keep everything bottled up forever. Sometimes, she just has to let go."

She gazed back at the resort down the hill, and sighed contently.

"Go speak to your fiancée, Thurston. She needs you right now. I enjoyed my time with you, and I hope that we will see each other again."

"I…would like that very much. May your life after this be fulfilling, whatever it is you decide to do."

Renton smiled and made his way up the hill towards the farmhouse. There was little time left before he had to go. To finish this, once and for all. But the sight of Nadia, standing on the hill and looking down, the wind playing with her hair, captivated him all the way to the front porch and until he shut the door behind him.

Upstairs on the top floor, a whitewash wooden door was locked, but Renton instinctively knew it was Eureka's room. Ever since the major loss, she refused to speak to anyone, even to him or Holland. Anyone who lost almost all of her family in one blow would easily shut oneself away. He almost did the same not too long ago. Even if she was in a fragile state, and even if she would rebuff him and shut herself off, he needed to say one last thing to her. If only for a sense of closure.

He gently tapped his knuckles on the door.

"Eureka? Are you awake?"

No answer. It was hardly surprising to him, but if there was a sliver of a chance for him to see her before facing battle one last time, he had to take it.

"I really miss seeing your face, you know. Someone as beautiful as you shouldn't keep yourself locked up like this."

Again, silence. He thought he could hear a disgruntled murmur through the door. It sounded as if she was saying "leave." Whether she wanted to hear it or not, he had to get his last thoughts off his chest, or go through battle with that doubt in the back of his head.

"I'm going off to face Dewey now. Holland is coming with me. We're going to end this, once and for all. Before I go, I need to tell you something. I don't care if you're not listening; I need to get this out of my head."

The quiet of the hallway spoke volumes of the immense pain Eureka was feeling. He could sense it through the door. As much as he wanted to respect her wishes, as much as he wanted to leave her to grieve, she had to know.

"I know you're hurting right now after what happened. Hell, I wouldn't want to talk to anyone either if that happened to me. I can't imagine what pain you must be feeling, so I won't even try, but I want you to believe me when I say things will be better once this is over."

A slight shifting of bed sheets seeped through the doorway, and Renton leaned his back against the wall, thinking back on every endeavor that guided him here. Was it luck or fate that brought him this far? He could never hope to know.

"It may seem tough to believe right now, and you may think that your family is all but gone, but you still have one. You have me, your brother Holland, Talho, Dominic and Anemone back home, and everyone else we met in the last four years. We're your family, too, and you're a part of mine. You will always be family to me, Eureka, because I love you. I love you more than anything in this world. I would do anything, go anywhere for you."

His back slid down, flaking off some dried-up wallpaper, and sighed deeply. What he wouldn't give just to hold her in his arms right now.

"Maybe that's what I've wanted in my life all along. I just wanted a family to love and call my own, since I never had much of one before I met you. Mother is dead, brother was always working, and Father was fighting in the war. Sounds petty, I know, but I don't regret doing any of this because it's how I came to love you. It's how I found my purpose in life, and it's what led me to decide what future I'm going to make…for us. When I come back, the future from then on will belong to us, and no one else."

The silence dictated he would not get an answer from her, but it was fine. He at least managed to say everything he wanted to. Standing upright and dusting off his tunic and matching pants, Renton gazed one last time at the door.

"I'll be back, Eureka. I promise."

Without a word from her, without any acknowledgement that she was even listening, he made his way down the steps. To the back of the farmhouse. To a heavily armored truck, with Petya driving. To his old comrades, waiting to at last finish the long and bloody chase.

»»»»»

In the rear of the armored truck, Renton and Holland made final preparations for what would be their last battle. Knowing they would be stepping into a lion's den, they had new weapons and heavy protection to get them through the defenses they would inevitably encounter.

Covering both of their torsos was a simple cuirass-like plate painted in green. Called "steel bibs" by Petya, they were often used by combat engineers or assault troops when engaging in close quarters. It was meant to protect them from submachine gun fire at longer ranges, and even a rifle bullet; the latter was rarer, however. Apart from the "steel bib," both had new weapons as well, meant for the heavier fighting that awaited them.

Renton held a special, experimental weapon that bore similarity to a German Sturmgewehr-44, but with a wooden stock, and a heavier curved box magazine holding 30 7.62 millimeter rounds. It was capable of both automatic and semiautomatic fire through a selector switch, and could easily work in both close quarters and medium range combat. A true "assault rifle" that could replace a standard bolt-action workhorse like the Mosin-Nagant, or even a semiautomatic rifle like the SVT-40.

Sitting across from him, Holland held a weapon of similar design, but bore more resemblance of a light machine gun than a simple rifle; the elongated barrel and drum magazine holding 100 rounds betrayed its support role of dealing heavy fire to cover advancing comrades. It was a weapon that, according to Petya, had been developed to replace the old DP light machine gun, but never saw combat. The war ended before there was a chance.

The truck hit a bump in the road, and knocked them all around like a ship on stormy waves.

"Sorry about that, you lot!" Petya hollered through a small window into the back. "Road's buckled from all the bombing!"

"As long as we get there," Renton said, reaching for a steel helmet, "I don't mind some turbulence."

"We'll be there soon enough. You know, I heard the colonel and Doctor Deckard talk about this place once, when we were still in Berlin. He said it was a good place to hide if they had to. Anyone who wants to get into that resort has to breach the gatehouse, and then it's one way straight to the hotel."

"Think we can take a dip in that pool after the fight?" Holland asked sardonically. Petya laughed.

"That'd be nice, right? I wouldn't mind a good swim, myself. Remember how often we used to swim across the Volga?"

"Yeah, I do," Renton remembered fondly. "You guys always beat me. I struggled just to go against the current!"

The three friends laughed at the memory, and Renton looked out through the window to Petya. His eyes were squarely focused on the road, which jostled the truck the further they went. For some reason, he sensed this would be their last moment together; surely after this, Renton would go back home to his country, and Petya to his. He had a family awaiting him as well, and a woman of his own to marry. They were much alike in that way, and it was that knowledge that made this trip all the harder.

"Listen," Petya said, as if clairvoyant to Renton's thoughts, "this might be our last time together, so let me just say it now: it's been an honor to serve with you one last time, Renton. Maybe when this is all settled, we will see each other again."

"I'd like that. As I said, you're welcome in my home any day."

Petya nodded, and glanced over his shoulder through the window. There was a hint of wistful nostalgia in his normally bright blue eyes, as if wishing that things had turned out better than they did.

"I know it's been a long and hard road, but you managed to get through this mess without losing sight of what really matters. For that, you have my respect."

His eyes turned back to the road, and he swerved to avoid a large pothole. A single hand ran through his sandy blonde hair as he offered some optimism, something to lift them up when all seemed dark and gloomy.

"The world is going to get better after this, I think. There are far too many good people left in this world to let it all rot away. You're a prime example, Renton. When you get back home, don't let whatever happens here get you down. You have a family to raise, after all."

"Geez, Petya," Holland quipped, straightening his helmet, "seven years later and you're still a cheesy sap? I thought Renton had beaten you at that!"

Laughter filled the inside of the truck, despite themselves. It was a moment to cherish, as it may very well be their last. A crackle came through on their communicators, and a familiar voice blared an update on the mission. It was Ken-Goh.

" _Petya, do you read me? Over."_

"I read you, Ken-Goh. What's up? Over."

" _We managed to tap into their radio feed. We're listening in on them as we speak. Over."_

"Perfect! Put it through for us. We'll know better what to do now. Over."

A brief intermission of static preceded a few Slavic voices talking over each other in their native tongue. One voice, deep and baritone, informed them all of incoming trouble.

" _The Red Army is coming. They've entered the valley and are approaching the demarcation line."_

Holland recognized the next voice. Smug and condescending, his words chilled like ice.

" _Get everyone back here now. We're leaving."_

" _Comrade Colonel, they may try to block our exfiltration route."_

" _I'm aware of the situation, Captain. Just do what I say."_

"Otlichna!" Petya said. "They don't know how close we really are."

"Still going to be tough," Holland mused. "My brother is a stubborn bastard. No way he is going to just up and leave without a fight."

"That's where we come in," Renton reassured. "He's coming back with us, one way or another."

Petya spotted a convoy of trucks moving towards the resort hotel, and slipped in with them. Methodically, they approached the gatehouse where a small shack for security guards stood and a boom gate, raised and lowered to allow or bar entry, demanded each truck pass inspection. These renegade soldiers certainly took no chances, and Petya realized the time for the attack had come.

"Listen, lads, they're not going to let us in. When I say go, knock down those doors and come out fighting. Don't stop until you reach the Colonel. Tochna?"

"Tak tochna," the two friends said unison.

The guards searched the back of the first truck, then the second, each time letting it pass. Renton breathed as calmly as he could, knowing that this was the moment. The end of it all. Cocking his weapon one last time he and Holland faced the doors of the truck. They heard a deep voice call out.

"Open the vehicle. We need to check all supplies."

There was no response from Petya. He only looked back at Renton and Holland and wished them well.

"Godspeed, Yankee! If anyone deserves it, you do!"

"Same to you, Russkie."

At the voice's second request to open the hatch, Petya slammed his foot on the accelerator, and rammed the truck through the boom gate, running over several guards in the process. He cried out,

"GO! DO IT, NOW!"

"This is for Father!" Holland shouted, and kicked open the hatch of the truck.

Renton and Holland let their weapons speak for them, and immediately killed three guards attempting to check the vehicle. As they jumped down, Petya swerved the truck around and barreled through more security guards, clearing a path for the duo to proceed to the resort hotel. They were all too happy to oblige, and began their walk.

Renton aimed down the sight of his new assault rifle, and fired a long burst at several retreating guards. They all fell to the accuracy of the American Russian, and he was impressed at just how hard-hitting and efficient this weapon could be. He hoped, however, that there would never be another war that would require its use. Holland in the meantime soldiered ahead, firing his new light machine gun as he walked. He took interest in several enemies near one of the first trucks, now stopped completely.

The massive firepower of his new weapon completely outclassed those of his opponents, and left a bloody trail for them to follow. Thanks to their armor, the rounds of PPSh-41 and MP40 submachine guns harmlessly bounced off their bodies. It was akin to being invincible, but Holland had to wonder how long it would last.

"You sure this armor will protect us?" he asked his friend.

"It will buy us the time we need."

He didn't argue with the logic, and proceeded further, towards the front steps of the hotel. A black roadster was parked out in front and formed a perfect barricade for Dewey's hired guns and security. It was amazing that he still had any forces to call upon at all.

"My brother has got an army in there!"

"It won't help him! Natasha, can you see where he is?"

Some static helped drown out Renton's shots as Natasha's voice greeted them.

" _I can't really tell…he might be on the third floor, where the restaurant is."_

"Keep an eye out! We're not leaving this place without him!"

Holland tossed a grenade over the chassis of the roadster, and caused everyone behind the car to scatter…straight into Renton's assault rifle. Two security guards fell, while a third shot several rounds at Renton's chest. The low-caliber rounds harmlessly bounced off his body armor like corks from a pop-gun, and allowed Renton to retaliate quickly with a TT-33 pistol. He fired two rounds at the guard's head, and scored a hit between his eyes, killing him.

Meanwhile, Holland tried to flank around the roadster just as more security came from a parking garage to his left. One of them fired a scavenged Sturmgewehr-44 at his back, but just as before, the rounds had no effect. It only aggravated the young militia lieutenant, who turned around and fired a long burst from his light machine gun. The effect was devastating, as his burst slashed through the squad like a reaper's scythe, and even sliced up some guards' bodies. They could not see it, but Holland's eyes remained unchanged throughout the firefight. It was a long road, a bloody one with many losses, that had to come to an end now.

Dewey had to face justice this time.

The two men entered the lobby of the hotel undeterred as enemy chatter rang through on their communicators. Dewey obviously knew something was happening.

" _Sir, enemy forces are on the resort grounds."_

" _Are they Red Army?"_

" _Not sure, yet. We'll know soon enough."_

" _Keep me updated, and stop them at all costs!"_

At the top of a carpeted staircase, a single security guard tossed down a grenade, hoping to slow down the two juggernauts. It bounced down each step, coming closer to them as they moved up. When they reached the midway point of the stairs the grenade detonated with a loud bang, but the grenade fragments could not penetrate their "steel bibs." The armor was more effective than anyone would have guessed, although Renton received a small shard to his shin.

He stumbled briefly, but it was not enough to stop him completely and he provided cover fire for Holland to advance. It was just as well, too, as more security guards reached the top of the staircase, and tried to overwhelm the duo with massive firepower. Renton went to work, picking off targets when he could with his assault rifle, which proved to be well-suited to the job.

It was like a mix between the aggressive qualities of the submachine gun and the durable reliability of a longer-range rifle. Three more fell, some down the stairs and others onto their backs, red mist marking where they once stood. That provided enough of an opening for Holland to finish off the resistance with several bursts from his light machine gun. Some security guards' bodies were cut gruesomely in half, the rate of fire was so high.

Upon reaching the top, Holland waved for his old friend to come join him. Renton bounded up the staircase and reached the atrium, where a fine glass chandelier dangled from the ceiling. In front of them lay the elevators, which would take them up to the higher floors, where Dewey surely still lingered.

"Natasha," Renton asked, "any update on Dewey's location? We're outside the lifts."

" _Wait…hold one moment…yes, I see him! The Colonel is in the restaurant on the third floor. He's got a large security detail with him. You better hurry!"_

Holland did not need to hear more, and punched the button which opened the elevator. As they stepped in, more enemy chatter confirmed that the entire attack had thrown Dewey's detail into chaos.

" _Gatehouse team, do you read? Lobby team, come in! Respond, goddammit!"_

" _Sir, they're all dead."_

" _What the hell do I pay you for? Don't let them get to the restaurant!"_

The elevator's doors closed, and it slowly moved up. Renton impatiently tapped his foot and growled. Couldn't this elevator go any faster? Holland snickered under his breath at his friend's impatience, though he could understand it easily. This had gone on long enough, and now was the time to finish it.

The doors opened as the elevator bell dinged, but they were greeted with the surprising sight of a projectile, likely from a Panzerschreck, whizzing through the air towards them. Renton and Holland quickly ran out of the lift, just as the Panzerschreck collided with the elevator frame. A massive explosion followed which knocked the duo off their feet and to the ground, and a thick cloud of dust covered them all.

" _They've reached the third floor."_

" _Fall back! Defend the restaurant!"_

Holland coughed, and came to, looking around to see the damage. Behind him, the elevator shaft was destroyed, and little more than a smoking husk. Beside him, Renton shifted his body slightly and struggled to get up. His armor was riddled with dents and gashes from the numerous shrapnel shards that flew from the blast. It was amazing he was not dead already. Holland looked at his own body, and sensed nothing was broken, but his body armor plate was shredded as well from the Panzerschreck, and now little more than a hindrance. He first removed his own body armor, then he helped his friend pull off his.

Having finally regained their senses, they kept pushing into the floor, towards the restaurant. The furniture was rather lavish, replete with wicker chairs and tables. They were not the best cover, but it had to do for the security team. Renton primed a fragmentation grenade and quickly tossed it into the main dining hall before rushing forward.

"Watch yourself, Renton!" Holland warned. "Your armor's gone!"

The grenade detonated and sent two guards flying over a small table and into a support column. It cleared a path, and they hung a left towards the lounging area by the windows. A small blackjack table marked the last checkpoint before entering the restaurant itself, where a German MG42 machine gun was mounted, covering the entrance with a heavy fire.

The rapid fire of the machine gun forced the duo into cover, but flakes and splinters of the wicker frames flew everywhere, turning chairs into Swiss cheese. If they did not act fast and take out that gunner, they'd be torn to shreds!

"Natasha," Renton called, "can you hear me? There's a heavy MG pinning us down outside the restaurant. Right side!"

" _Got it. Hang on while I find him…"_

"Hurry, Natasha! We can't hold!"

Both waited with baited breath as their friend scoped in from across the resort, scanning for her target. They only prayed that she could even hit the gunner at this range. In the meantime, more chatter from the enemy and from Dewey betrayed what was in store if they did not act quickly.

" _Any word on the truck? Has it arrived yet?"_

" _On the way, comrade Colonel. Trouble with enemy tanks. The Red Army is closing in."_

" _I don't care! Notify me when it is two minutes out!"_

A stray machinegun round zipped past Renton's head and made him scurry closer to Holland. The need for longer-range support was far more pressing now, as their cover was almost gone. He thought for sure it would be too late until he heard the shattering of glass and loud squelch. It was followed by a cry of pain, and a soft thud. He looked over the edge, and saw that Natasha's aim was impeccable: she had scored a direct hit through the gunner's skull and out the front, rendering his face almost unrecognizable. He could not help but be amazed at her skill as Holland vaulted over the destroyed wicker couch.

"That was a beautiful shot, Natasha! You're amazing."

" _I told you: nothing beats a PTRS-41 at this range! Now hurry up! You almost got him!"_

They did not need to be told twice, and rushed past the blackjack table, through an arch, and into the restaurant itself. At the far end, Holland thought he spotted Dewey, rising from a circular dinner table. He still wore his old uniform, complete with the anathematic rain cape draped over his shoulders. Another officer was with him, and based on the radio chatter, he was ready to leave.

" _The truck is here, sir. We're waiting for you outside the pool house."_

" _Good, keep the engine running. I will be there soon."_

"THERE HE IS!" Holland yelled, before sprinting across the dining hall.

Renton struggled to keep up with his friend, his eyes solely focused on the escaping renegade officer. Just a little further! Just a little further, and they would have him! This all will end!

As he bounded over an overturned party dinner table, he spotted something amiss on the pillars. They all had a black box mounted to them. No…no, it couldn't be…!

"The place is rigged to blow…!"

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! CRASH!

One after another the pillars exploded into a hailstorm of concrete and steel. The floor buckled beneath them and the sight of Dewey's cape disappear behind the doorframe was the last thing Holland saw before losing his footing. His body started sliding to the right, which was the directional list of the whole floor, and Holland frantically looked for something, anything, to grab and stop his fall.

His body slid over the ledge, and his gloved hands caught an errant steel support beam. Looking down, he saw just how high up both he and Renton were, and the extent of their damage. The former gatehouse was now a smoldering wreck, plowed and flattened thanks to Petya's driving. Bodies lay strewn about on the front entrance of the hotel, the deadly effect of his weapon being readily apparent even from this height. A metallic scraping reached his ears and he watched with shrunken blue pupils as his weapon fell off the ledge and towards the grounds below.

Well, that just meant he would have to confront his brother the old-fashioned way.

The former partisan and now hardened militia officer struggled and strained to gain a foothold on the ledge. His hands clawed at any grip he could find, thinking of everyone who was counting on them now. Talho. Eureka. Sergeant Weaver. Even Renton.

Where was he?

A loud, painful groan heralded an unfortunate fate for his friend. His eyes bounced around, looking to find any sign of him, following the groan. When he found him, it was truly a pathetic and heartbreaking sight.

Thankfully, Renton was not dead, if his groans were any indication, but he was effectively immobile: a heavy metal support rod jutted out Renton's left thigh like a lighthouse above the fog, pinning him to the floor. His face was coated in crimson and even the whites of his eyes were stained red. Anyone else would think he was a wounded demon, pierced mortally by an angel's righteous blade.

"Rentoshka…"

Renton writhed on the ground, straining to move at the mention of his name. His head gently tilted towards Holland, and he bore his teeth. Red stained the enamel. How was his friend even alive?

"Leave me! You're going to lose him!"

"But Renton, you…"

"Dewey is _your_ brother, Holland, so it's up to you. Not me, not Eureka, YOU! Don't let him get away!"

His hands weakly grasped at his assault rifle and pushed over to him the rest of his ammunition. Considerate of him, but what would he do? How did he hope to get out of this?

Holland bit his lip and reluctantly left his friend, still bleeding on the charred floor. As much as he wanted to tend to his future brother-in-law, his kin in all but name, he had to stay focused. But it did not mean he would completely forget about him.

"Natasha, it's me, Holland."

" _Thank God you're alive! We just saw that explosion from here. Are you alright?"_

"I'm fine, but Renton is badly wounded. You need to get him out of here."

" _We'll send Mischa out to get him. Just focus on finding Dewey! Finish this!"_

Satisfied, Holland broke into a full sprint out of the restaurant and down the halls of the third floor. He could see the silhouette of his brother at the very end hang a right, while two security guards stuck close, trying to find a good place for defense. When one turned around, making sure they were not followed, Holland ducked into an open hotel room door. The intercepted chatter hinted at desperation.

" _Do you see them?"_

" _No, sir. Not yet. Reports said it was two men."_

" _Impossible! How could two men do this?"_

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Holland snickered to himself.

He peeked out the corner of the doorframe, and spotted one security guard lagging behind the detail. Sensing an opportunity, Holland took aim and fired a short burst of three. All landed in the guard's back with a loud scream, which picked up the pace of the evacuation. He stood up and dashed down the hallway to the door at the far end, where a lounge and bar resided, overlooking the pool house. The final security guard tried to slow down the charging militia officer, but to no avail. Mere microseconds passed before the younger Novikov brother was finally upon him, and slashed his throat with a combat knife. Recognizing there was nowhere for Dewey to go, Holland knew there would likely be a nasty surprise waiting for him in the lounge.

Holland stacked up outside the lounge entrance and primed a grenade before tossing it in, to clear out any enemies who may still stand between him and his brother. Strangely, there was no chatter left, and not even the voice of Dewey on the radio. The grenade detonated without any accompanying screams of wounding. He thought nothing of it and dashed in, only to find the place seemingly vacant.

"Empty?"

His blue eyes scanned the lounge, wondering where his brother would come from, or if he was here at all. A soft pattering noise alerted him of something to his right, and turned in anticipation.

A Red Army officer in his early thirties leaped on a couch and unsheathed a dress sword from its scabbard, attached to his belt. Dewey yelled like a common soldier in a bayonet charge as he raised his sword over his head, hoping to strike him down with a single blow. Holland acted quickly, and blocked the sword with the frame of his assault rifle.

Looking into his brother's icy eyes, he realized just how little had changed in him since their childhoods. He was always aloof, somewhat distant and abrasive. There was a distaste whenever he was with the others, or whenever he spoke of Renton to him or in his presence.

"It's really been far too long, brother," Holland commented sarcastically. "Looks like the war took its toll on you." Dewey scoffed.

"I'm not about to lose to some troublemaking kids just yet."

"You ought to know your limits, old man!"

Holland pushed back on his brother's weapon and rolled off to his left. Dewey stumbled forward, and stood up again before bringing his sword around, hoping to slice off a hand of Holland's. Everything was destroyed, and if he was going down in flames, he would take everyone with him. Just as Dewey swiped at Holland, he jumped back and the sword harmlessly clanged on the floor. The Red Army colonel was not about to give up, and was determined to fight his way out if he had to. He charged forward, aiming the blade at Holland's throat but he was not facing some random conscript; Holland had seen years of fighting, endured years of hardship, and was ready to take on anything.

Another parry from Holland saved him from a grievous wound and preceded his sidestepping. Using all his might, he forced the blade down, the muzzle of his assault rifle pressed on the flat of the blade. The trigger gave way, and a short burst of bullets broke the sword into several shining shards. Dewey's eyes widened in surprise.

"What…it's fake…?!"

"You think the brass would give you a real one to play with, brother? How stupid do you think they are?!"

Dewey was undeterred, and only shoved his younger brother back in anticipation of a close-quarters kill. The militia officer dug in his heels and pulled again on the assault rifle's trigger, deafening the room with sharp reports of each shot. The renegade colonel was quick to react, however, and fell back to a bar, behind which several bottles of fine liquor would normally tempt any customer of this one fine resort. The rounds cut through the hem of his rain cape and broke the bottles into glass slivers, flying everywhere.

As the liquor flowed onto the floor, Holland continued his fire, hoping to pin him down behind the bar long enough to corner him. He slowly approached, lecturing his brother all the while.

"DO YOU EVEN KNOW OR CARE ABOUT ALL THE TROUBLE YOU CAUSED US?!"

"I WAS ONLY TRYING TO PROTECT MY FAMILY'S DIGNITY!"

Holland growled in anger at his words, fumbling with a new magazine. What blind arrogance did his older brother have to still not see the grave error of his ways?

"You tore our family apart! Who are you to talk about dignity?!"

His boots carried him across the lounge faster than an Olympic track runner and pushed off the floor. He landed upright on the top of the bar, and aimed down, expecting to see his ignominious excuse of a brother cowering. But there was no one to be found.

"What the…brother, stop hiding and come out!"

"Gladly."

A strong hand, veiled with pristine white gloves, wrenched at Holland's belt from behind and pulled him off the bar table. The younger brother, taken by surprise, had no time to react before Dewey punched him hard in the face, sending him back several feet and knocking him into a leather couch. He lost all grip on his weapon in his fall, and now the tables were turned.

"Forgive me, I phrased that wrong, little brother."

"What?"

Dewey reached for the assault rifle, and briefly glossed over it, as if in admiration. If only his troops were equipped with these in time for his plan.

"I am trying to atone for the sins of our family, and through my atonement, I protect the dignity of my family, as well as the sacred dignity of our country, our Communist Party, and our Great Leader. Why can't you and your American interloper friend understand that?!"

Holland could only laugh mockingly, and glared at his eldest brother.

"The first-born son of General Piotr Nikolayevich Novikov isn't measuring up at all!"

Seemingly unaffected by his caustic words, Dewey only shouldered the assault rifle, and pointed the muzzle right at his head.

"Tell me something, Holland," he hissed, "how would you have safeguarded your family, knowing that it would not survive the next purge? Tell me how you would reconcile your friendship with the American, knowing he was the cause of our family's misery! For what reason do any of us have to live on after receiving such treatment from our own nation?!"

"Destroying the peace is definitely not the answer. If we are being targeted, then the Party had no love for us to begin with! Why not just end all of this? Why not come with us back to America?"

"You _still_ don't understand? You really are a disgrace, little brother."

" _You're_ the disgrace, Dewey! You destroyed everything, even your own family for some insane dream! If you're so eager for death, do it on your own!" Dewey smirked smugly at that challenge.

"Sorry, but I get rather lonely."

The colonel's gloved fingers curled around the trigger, and Holland reached behind his back for something. He did not want to do this, but if there was no other way…

Suddenly, a distant noise caught both of their attention. It sounded like the rumbling of a heavy automobile engine, and the squealing of tank tracks. Dewey's instincts went on high alert and he looked out the window, if only to confirm his suspicions.

A lone forest green T-34 aimed its 76-millimeter gun straight up at the third floor, and the colonel started to move towards the exit. But it was too late.

The tank fired, and a high explosive shell ripped through the lounge in a ear-piercing roar. Holland received a bruise on his right arm from falling plaster and steel, but was otherwise unhurt. He thought he saw Dewey's body fly like a rag doll from the shell before his entire vision was coated in dust and ash. A fire broke out from behind the bar, and the entire hotel was little more than a towering inferno. But the question remained: who in the hell brought that tank into the fray?

The next bit of chatter on the radio confirmed his suspicions.

" _That's a direct hit! The lounge is gone, Ken-Goh!"_

" _Keep an eye on it, Natasha! We have to make sure we got the Colonel."_

Holland only groaned in pain as he gripped his arm and tried to stand.

"Jesus, Petya and the others can be really reckless sometimes…"

"You're right," Dewey said from off to his right. "They're quite reckless. Maybe that is why they survived for so long."

The younger brother turned on his side, and looked up. With the flames of the lounge in the foreground, the rogue colonel and prodigal eldest Novikov child looked the picture of a man cast into Hell. His peaked cap blown away along with his rain cape, his uniform reduced to rags, his grey hair hanging free of its restraints and one gloved hand gripping an open wound in his side, Holland had to wonder just what on earth his cold brother could do now. Surely, he knew this was the end. Yet, he still raised his TT-33 pistol aloft, as strongly as he would against a German soldier.

"Why do you keep fighting, little brother? What the hell do you see in the American?"

"I see compassion, and love for me and my sister. Something you never had the time to give. He's more family than you ever were." Dewey only shook his head and scoffed.

"Then you are a traitor, Holland, just like your sister. Although I must admit, they do look perfect together." Holland ground his teeth, and struggled to sit up.

"You don't even know Renton! You don't know anything about what lies outside Russia! Put the gun down and I can show you! You fought the battle and lost; just stop, now."

At that, Dewey laughed heartily, as if Holland had uttered the funniest joke in existence. His laughter was cut short by a stinging pain in his side, but he still brandished the smug smirk.

"If you truly believe you've won, then you are a bigger fool than the American. You just briefly staved off the inevitable. That alliance Vladimir always spoke of so glowingly? It's crumbling like eroded rock. Surely, you've seen it for yourself, little brother. Before long, our countries will be on opposite sides! Can your romantic ideals hope to stop the inevitable?! RIDICULOUS!"

He unlocked the pistol's safety and cocked the hammer, and Holland thought for sure he would shoot him. But instead, he turned the gun on himself, aiming at his right temple.

"If you want to keep fighting fate, then go ahead! You will concede your error with your dying breath. However, I will die knowing that, however long the next conflict lasts, _our_ side will prevail in the end! SO CRY ALL YOU WANT! THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING!"

"BROTHER, STOP! DON'T DO IT!"

A loud gunshot echoed from the destroyed lounge, and Holland could only watch, his heart stopped in time, his reckless brother's body fall limp to the smoldering floor. Red covered his face and blotched his grey hair, and a single tear fell from the militia lieutenant's eye.

"Brother…I'm so sorry…"

Nothing but the crackle of fire and the slow, ominous creak of the floor answered him. All he could fixate on was the dead body of his brother, and the grim knowledge that he and Eureka were the last of his name. Not even the footsteps and the familiar voice of Sergeant Talho Yukieva shook him from his stupor.

"Holland! There you are! Sorry about that sudden display of firepower; we had to make sure there was no way the colonel could get away. Renton's been evacuated and…"

She stopped midsentence, and gasped in shock at the sight of the colonel's dead body. Her beau and commanding officer stood weakly on his two feet, his watery eyes locked on the corpse.

"It was too late for me to realize it," he said, his voice trembling. "I wasn't able to save my family. Not my brothers, not Father, not Mother."

His face, caked in soot and smoke, turned in despair to Talho's surprised hazel eyes. Tears flowed with the volume of a waterfall down his face, mixing with the soot. A small, hopeless, knowing smile told Talho all she needed to know.

"Everything I did…from the moment we started…was in vain."

Talho struggled to find words, something that could persuade him to see another way. It was easy to agree, given all they had lost along the way, and all that awaited them if they lingered on this forsaken continent, far, far from home. A tiny drop of silver stood in her eye as she said,

"No, we did accomplish a lot. We stopped something terrible from happening. We were just too late. Every single thing we did, we did too late."

She approached her superior and lover, and gently took his hand. He gripped hers hard, hard enough to break her wrist, but she didn't mind it. This was not a time to cast blame or accusations. Not now.

"Holland, I'm so, so sorry."

"I'm sorry, too. If I had known this would happen, I never would have dragged you here. None of you should have come here. Now everything that I know in this place is lost…!"

His knees buckled, and Talho thought he might just crumble into dust, like so much else of the Novikov family. They suffered the most from long ordeal. Sensing what he needed, Talho pulled him towards the exit, and guided him with a free hand.

"You still have me, Holland, and you always will. You have our future child. You have Renton and Eureka, and everyone back home in Bellforest. So, let's go to where we have a future."

The tears would not stop flowing, but Holland, for some reason, felt lighter as he stumbled towards the doorway.

"Home?"

"Yes. Home for good and all. Away from all of this mess."

"That sounds…good to me."

He looked back at the body one last time, and only shook his head in despair.

"Do svidaniya, moy glupiy brat." (A/N: Goodbye, my stupid brother.)

They walked out of the smoking lounge, down the stairwell, and out to the hotel grounds where a welcoming party awaited them.

»»»»»

 **July 11** **th** **, 1945**

 **Somewhere in Bavaria, American-occupied Germany**

Renton Thurston came to, and the first thing his jade eyes saw was a white ceiling, clean and intact. Not a single crack in the façade. Looking around, he appeared to be in a hospital as a nurse patted his head with a cold towel. How did he get here? Last he remembered, he was badly wounded in the final assault on Dewey's hideout, and effectively left immobile. He struggled to sit up, but was pushed onto his back by a nurse. She had a distinctive New York accent, which seemed to reveal exactly where he was.

"You're not ready to move around just yet, sonny! You suffered a nasty wound in that hotel!"

"What happened?" Renton asked, his voice almost frantic with confusion. "Am I in America? Where is Holland?"

"Calm down, sonny. Don't worry; your friends are all okay. They're safe now."

"Welcome back to the realm of the living, chief!" a familiar voice greeted from beside his bed. "And welcome to the American occupation zone, too!"

Renton's attention shifted to his right, and was amazed to see his old friend, classmate and comrade Dominic Sorel. The young soldier cut a dashing figure in a forest green dress uniform and a matching peaked cap on his head. The gunmetal grey eyes had lost their steely resolve and only shone bright with relief at his friend's recovery, and his teeth almost flashed in the light of the hospital room.

"Dominic…?"

"In the flesh!" Dominic said with a wink. "Hope you're behaving with the nurses. They need to take good care of you, after all."

"But…we were in the Soviet zone! We were chasing Dewey…how did we…?"

Renton fell back onto his pillow with a heavy sigh, wondering just how much he missed since he blacked out from his wound.

"What the hell happened?"

"That's what I want to know," Dominic replied. "I thought you were through with fighting."

"I thought so, too. It's…complicated."

"I'm sure you're here to keep him company," the nurse said, standing up, "so, I'll be back in a few minutes. Make sure he doesn't strain himself, ya hear?"

With the hardworking nurse gone for now, the two young men were left alone to talk. It had been many months since they last saw each other. There was so much to catching up to do. Dominic grabbed a metal chair and sat down next to Renton, taking off his cap. He didn't want to chat with Renton soldier to soldier, but friend to friend.

"It started with that girl who tried to kill me," Renton started. "It turns out Eureka's oldest brother put that hit on me, and—"

Before a long explanation could follow from Renton, Dominic raised his hand. He had heard it all already.

"Holland told me everything, Renton. You don't need to explain it again. But I'll say this, he wasn't kidding when he said you guys got stuck in a giant mess."

"You're telling me," Renton said, shaking his head as he gazed at the ceiling. "I still wonder how we landed in it. In a way, I sort of wish it was just about Holland's brother and his vendetta with me…"

Dominic's friend covered his tired eyes, and ran his fingers through his frayed hair. The amount of stress and trauma he witnessed and experienced must truly be indescribable. It was what made his soft words of warning all the wiser.

"Chief, I'm not gonna mince words with you, and I already said this to Holland and the others. You're right that this whole thing was about a lot more than just that crazy colonel. I'm under orders to tell you that your time spent here concerned issues of the utmost sensitivity and of national security."

The officer wrung his hands, hating to have to break this to his best friend. Renton's eyes peeked through his hands, dull and exhausted.

"Everything you saw, heard, and learned during your time here…you _cannot_ and _must not_ discuss with anyone. No one is getting any promotions or medals from this mission; it's just too sensitive to make public."

"What…?" Renton asked in a stunned silence.

Just then, the dullness turned into suspension of belief, even frustration. Wanting to forget about the past was one thing. But to disregard everything that happened to him and his comrades? That did not sound right in the slightest.

"What the hell does that mean, Walt? How can I forget what I've seen and done? Are you telling me…that all of the hardships we've been through were just an illusion?!" The black-haired teenager sighed and shook his head.

"No. That's not it at all." Renton scoffed.

"Then what?"

"If the world knew that someone was creating a weapon of mass destruction," Dominic reasoned, "things would never be the same again. If word got around that a madman and a scientist tried to cause a third world war, there would be panic. Every country would go searching for this weapon and engage in power struggles. That's what you wanted to prevent, isn't it, Ren?"

The oak brown-haired lad winced. Whether it was from the pain or the revelation alone was unclear.

"Yes, it is."

"I'm only telling you this because I want you to have a normal life…or as normal as it can be after something like that. I don't want to see you go through something that crazy again. If you really want to move on from this, just do what I say. Some things are better left unsaid. Some questions are better left unanswered."

Renton let out a heavy sigh, his anger fading. At this point, any energy to care was long gone. Truth be told, he found himself…rather relieved. It was not like people in his group were eager to divulge details, anyway. Holland wouldn't bring himself to even share all the horrendous things he saw in the Warsaw laboratory. Renton couldn't imagine what he must have felt. Such information would be far too scary to even fathom.

"You're right. No one should know what happened here. It's best to keep it that way." Dominic smiled, happy to see his friend understand.

"I'm glad you agree. If you weren't my friend, and I didn't care what happened to you…I probably wouldn't have told you at all." Renton reached a hand over to his long-time friend's shoulder.

"But, you _are_ my friend. And I'm glad you told me. Thank you, Dominic."

The young officer grasped at Renton's hand, and held it tightly as if he was a spirit about to disappear. His gaze returned to the ceiling, and a small silence stifled the friendly air.

"Say, how's Anemone doing?" Renton asked, desperate to change the subject. "She's not here in Germany with you, is she?"

"No, she's at home. And even if she was with me, she'd nag at me for all the times I screw up when I'm on duty." The bedridden lad chuckled lightly.

"Yeah, I'll bet. Are things okay over here, then?"

"Quieter than what's been going on in your neck of the woods, that's for sure. The most I've been doing is hunting down Nazis who tried to escape. There will be a military tribunal in Nuremburg soon. Every Nazi who's still alive is going to pay for what they did."

"I see…"

Renton nodded slowly, although the listless look in his eyes betrayed his lack of interest in such things. To him, the war was over, and it had to be left in the past.

"Listen, Ren, I know I said you guys aren't getting any rewards for this, but I _can_ give you something else."

"What?"

"How does the next ship bound for New York sound? There's one leaving from Marseilles in France in the next few days."

Despite his wounds and the immense fatigue from the month-long ordeal, the American Russian's spirit shot up like a rocket at that proposal. Finally, after what felt like forever, he could go home. All of them could at last go home, and return to a normal life. Just as he had originally intended.

When he heard Dominic's proposal, he smiled, and thought of how life had a strange way of working things out…even if the track record was spotty, at best.

"That sounds great. Nothing would make me happier."

A heavy, relieved sigh left Renton's body and evaporated into the ether. What once felt like the weight of the entire world dissipated into a light feather. The hospital light flickered as he blinked, and, upon seeing the same white ceiling with no cracks, he realized it was no dream. Finally, _finally_ , his days of fighting, killing, suffering, and bleeding were over. The life he wanted this whole time, the one he dreamed of every wartime night, would soon begin.

 _Less than one month later, on August 6_ _th_ _, 1945, the United States dropped the first atomic bomb on the Japanese city of Hiroshima, followed by a second on Nagasaki three days after. The two bombings remain the single use of nuclear weapons in military history._

 _On the same day as the Nagasaki bombing, the Soviet Union declared war on Japan and invaded Japanese-held Manchuria._

 _Japan formally surrendered to the Allied Powers three weeks later._

 _Over 60 million people were killed in World War II._

 _It was the bloodiest and most destructive conflict in human history._


	23. Chapter 23 (END)

**A/N: This is it. The final chapter. The finale. The conclusion. The denouement. Whatever you call it, it all ends here. After all the bloodshed, death, loss, and violence, it finally ends. While the Second World War did not stop all conflict entirely, there has never been another war like it since, and hopefully, there never will be again. All that is left for those who survived are to return home, rebuild, and at least try to start over.**

 **And for people like Renton Thurston and Eureka Novikova, that is the best dream one can ever have.**

 **At the end of this chapter I will explain what happens after this. For now, enjoy this final farewell.**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-three**

 **Ten years later, July 9** **th** **, 1955**

 **Somewhere in northern California, USA**

While all took comfort in the fact that a third world war was indeed prevented, they could not have foreseen the proliferation of weapons of mass destruction. The atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki were a shock to all, even to the average American citizen, but since it seemed to secure the surrender of Japan and the end of the war, there was no sense in complaining about it. At least, they thought, Dewey never successfully used his atomic weapon.

Nadia and Vladimir were right about one thing: the alliance that stood strong against the Axis Powers did not last long after the victory. All of Eastern Europe fell under the control of the Soviet Union, who oversaw the installation of puppet communist governments in the nations that only sought to live free. The dividing line, the Iron Curtain that separated East and West, ran straight through Germany all the way to the Adriatic Sea. The Soviet Union and the United States were now on opposite ends of a new conflict. A cold war.

It was not the apocalyptic, world-ending struggle that Dewey had thought it would be, however. Rather, it was a simmering tea kettle, just waiting to boil over. There was only paranoia about when and if either side would launch the first strike against the other. But with such deadly weapons as the kind used to end the previous war, is it any wonder that no one dared press the button?

For Eureka, the larger, simmering conflict was merely background noise. It might as well not exist, as she moved on from such subjects as politics, war, and the question of communism or capitalism. Her life had become more localized, more focused. Instead of fighting for her life, she spent her days tending to the children, harvesting crops, and today, preparing meals for the family.

The smell of fresh-cooked salmon and sautéed mushrooms filled the family kitchen with an alluring air. Cooking was a means of therapy for her after the long war. The sizzling of food in a pan and the aroma of bubbling soup kept her calm, reminding her of the days she spent cooking for Renton in their youths. He always loved Russian food, and gave her good marks all around.

A light breeze swept through her shortened brown locks, cooling her from the heat of the cooktop and the oven. It could get incredibly hot in the farmhouse during the summer, so air conditioners were installed as part of the renovations. That the farmhouse was still standing at all, and made new again, was nothing short of astounding to her.

She flipped over the salmon with a spatula, and shifted it around to a loud sizzle. Needed some more seasoning, she thought. As she started to head towards the spice rack, she was stopped by something.

An object poked her back, and her whole body froze in slight fear. The familiar feeling of paranoia locked her throat in a grip, and she heard a masculine voice, slightly familiar give her stern orders.

"Hands in the air."

She did as she was ordered, and raised her arms until her hands were above her head.

"Turn around. Slowly."

Again, she did as she was told, and methodically rotated her body 180 degrees, hoping that her worst fears would not be confirmed. She found a tall man in his late 20s facing her. Faded brown hair covered his forehead like a veil, with a lock between his eyes shocked white. His face was smooth, save for a scar under his left eye and one on both temples. One hand had taken the shape of a gun, with two forefingers pressing on her stomach. A thin, well-trimmed mustache hugged his lower lip, which was curled in a sly, knowing grin.

"Now lose that dress," her husband breathed, the grin growing wider.

Eureka only laughed as Renton hugged her tightly. This was a common occurrence for them, and she went along with it each time happily. Even now, after eight years of marriage, Renton had a way of being amorous and romantic. From the moment they spent their first marital night together, he behaved like a different person, something he only hinted at previously. Every day was like an adventure with him, as he surprised her with how teasing and loving he could be.

"Rentoshka, please!" she giggled, trying to bat him away as he kissed her neck, "not while I'm cooking!"

"Why not?" he whispered, his hands travelling down her back. "You didn't say anything yesterday."

"That's because it was just between us, my dear husband. We're having guests today."

"We can call it off…if it means more time with you…"

Renton kissed her deeply on the lips, and Eureka giggled. Whether it was from her husband's passion or the tickle of his mustache was uncertain.

"You better stop it," Eureka playfully warned Renton. "What if the children see us like this?"

"And what if they do? It's not like they haven't seen us together before."

Renton's lips traveled down to kissing around the nape of her neck. Her short hair made it easier for him to please her, and even she could not keep resisting. The sizzling salmon and mushrooms faded away as his hands explored her, creeping down.

"So, what were you cooking, darling?"

"Hmmm…I'm not telling," Eureka replied coyly. "See for yourself, honey." Renton looked at the contents at the stove and licked his lips.

"Ah, salmon and mushrooms this time, huh? You never cease to amaze me."

"I got a little tired of making beet soup all the time," she said as she tried to reach for the spice rack. "You remember that it was Holland's favorite, don't you?"

"Indeed, I remember. And you were a great cook then, too."

One of her arms snaked out of his grasp and added seasoning to the fish. Renton allowed her to set it down before continuing on his romantic escapade. He kissed Eureka upon the nape of her neck and proceeded to nibble at her ear. Eureka tried and failed to suppress an aroused moan as his hands traveled down her body. His fingers curled around the hem of her light blue dress and lifted it up slowly. A slight chill ran up her spine at his touch on the back of her thighs. For Renton, there was never a bad time to remind his wife how much he loved her.

"Oh my…whatever are you planning for me, darling?"

"Why tell you when I can just show you?" Renton smirked, staring seductively.

His hands stopped at something obstructing his touch and he pulled down at it slowly. A pair of dark blue panties for the casual day fell to her ankles.

"You always look lovely in blue," he whispered before gently sucking on her neck.

Eureka laughed lightly, expecting this from him. Even though she was in the middle of cooking, she could not resist her husband and the love of her life. She thought for sure this was the start of another moment. How bold he had become since their union.

"Renton…not here…"

"Yes, here. I haven't seen you all day since this morning, you know. Working in the fields gets incredibly lonely…"

Eureka struggled to stay on her two feet, but with her panties shackled around her ankles it was incredibly hard. His calloused hand lightly spanked her bare buttocks, and she felt a spark zip up her back to her brain.

"AH! Renton, you little devil! You know I'm sensitive down there…"

"I know. That's the whole point…"

Emboldened, Renton did it again, a little harder than before, and Eureka's legs suddenly became like jelly. She nearly fell, but Renton was right there to catch her and hold her. His grip on her plump buttocks only tightened, and a wave of ecstasy rippled through her.

"OOH!" she yelped, struggling to gain a firm footing. "Darling, at least let me take my panties off. Another of your attacks and—OOH!"

Another shock of pleasure zapped her as her husband squeezed her bottom again, and she completely lost her footing. The two of them collapsed onto the kitchen floor with Eureka straddling Renton, her panties flown off her feet and off to the side.

"Still want to keep cooking or do I have to-!?"

The twenty-nine-year-old man couldn't finish his inquiry by the time a pair of soft lips pressed down hard onto his. Without wasting time, their arms began to wander and claw at each other's bodies. Renton found a hold on one of Eureka's well-endowed bosoms as he nibbled on his wife's ear. She giggled, and her grey eyes narrowed seductively at her husband.

"You cheeky pervert," she breathed, a knowing smile creeping across her lips. "But you're _my_ cheeky pervert."

"I can't be anything else for you, darling. I love you too much."

"I love you too…"

His free hand hiked up her skirt and danced all over her lower body, and it seemed that the dinner would be a forgotten memory. Eureka was on the cusp of sharing that exact same idea in mind as one of her sneaky hands brushed against the center of Renton's farming trousers, eliciting a groan of need from Renton. With reckless and passionate abandon, the twenty-seven-year-old housewife proceed in undoing the front of the trousers. But then, out of nowhere…

THUD!

A loud noise, which sounded like something falling over came from upstairs and broke the sultry mood that only a moment earlier held them captive. Eureka, whose face now resembled a cherry, quickly broke apart from his embrace to look around, as did Renton. Even though his days as a soldier and a fighter were over, his senses were as sharp in the farmhouse as on the battlefield.

"It sounds like that came from upstairs…" Eureka thought aloud.  
"Better not be in the attic," Renton added. "I swear, if those two got up there again…"

A high-pitched voice, muffled, confirmed Renton's fears. The children were wont to sneak around in the attic, and often get into places they shouldn't. Nothing dangerous had come of their habit (yet), but they occasionally found things they were not meant to see.

"Oh, not again!" he groaned.

Eureka only smiled lightly at her husband's frustration. It reminded her of how Holland and her neighbors liked to tease him in their childhoods. The teasing continued through the war without respite, and even now, their children could give him a headache.

"Come on, let's see what they're up to," Eureka said, ushering him to follow her.

Upstairs, a lid was flipped open, and two small figures climbed up the ladder into the darkness.

"Hey, Ray, what are you doing?" protested a seven-year-old boy with dark brown hair and dark green eyes. "Dad doesn't like it when you snoop around in here!"

"Don't wimp out on me, now, Charles!" reasoned an eight-year-old girl with the same colored hair and grey eyes. "I'm just looking around, that's all. Besides, this was YOUR idea!"

"Not if it meant this," Charles muttered as he climbed up. "You know what's going to happen…"

It was not the first time Ray had dragged him unwillingly into adventures, and the result was usually the same: a stern scolding from their parents, and a revocation of some privilege they enjoyed for a short time.

"Seriously, though sis, you're going to get in trouble big time. Remember the last time you did this nonsense last week? You went into Mom and Dad's bedroom and tried to find some 'hidden treasure' in the chest of drawers."

"I was looking for a photo album!" Ray answered, innocently.

"Through our mother's underwear drawers?! Geez, you're weird…"

Ray rolled her eyes, not wanting to be reminded of the memory. She never saw her mother angrier than on that day, and both were barred from dinner afterward. Still, she had to do this, and tried to convince her younger brother.

"Charles, haven't you ever wondered what our dad was like back in the day?"

"Duh, he's a farmer."

"That's not what I mean. Dad never talks about what it was like during the war. I want to know what he's hiding from us."

"Maybe there is a good reason he doesn't talk about the war!"

Alas, Ray would not listen to her brother, and pulled him up into the attic. It was a dimly lit place, with only a single light bulb hanging from the roof boards. The attic was said to hold mostly empty boxes and old books, since there was no room to house them all. But Ray, ever the adventurer, sincerely believed that something amazing was hidden up here.

She approached the first cardboard box she saw, labeled "Miscellaneous" and started prying it open.

"Oooh, I wonder what's in here?" Ray asked the wind.

"Sis, if you open that box, there is no going back," Charles warned his stubborn older sibling.

"I know, but that's the fun of it all!"

"You're missing the point!"

Ray opened the box with reckless abandon, but found something she didn't expect to see. It looked to be a stack of newspapers and clippings, all dating back at least 10 years if not more. She started to go through them curiously, and read a few of the headlines out loud.

"September 8, 1941…German army continues its advance through Russia to Moscow…"

Her grey eyes glanced down, and saw that someone had circled the story in black marker and scribbled something hastily.

"Hey, someone wrote on this...what... 'what about Stalingrad?'... 'need to write her today'…write who?" Charles looked at the article and was as baffled as she.

"I don't know."

"There's gotta be more in here..."

Now Charles was curious, and looked into the box while Ray found another "Miscellaneous" container to open. There were dozens of newspaper clippings, each dating back to the Second World War. It was a time their father never liked to talk about, and whenever they asked him, he only gave them a sad, wistful look and a bitten back sob.

Another clipping, a little over a year later, had another headline.

"October 4, 1942. Fighting intensifies in Stalingrad, Russian army has its back to the river...hey, someone wrote on this one too!"

His thin finger traced the words and followed the commentary of the unknown writer. It was harried, fraught with concern and panic.

"This is it…? I need to go to her now? Her who? What _is_ all of this stuff?"

Ray pulled out something from hers, and was taken by it with intrigue. It was a small brown case with a brass lock on the front. She flipped it open, and it showcased what looked to be five medals, all of various designs and even in different languages.

"Whoa! I didn't know dad was an athlete!" Ray thought aloud in amazement.

Charles looked back and came over to Ray, who was lost in awe at the row of medals. They did indeed look splendid, and it only raised further questions. Why would their father hide all of this from them?

He then spied another dark object behind the box, longer and more rectangular. When he opened it, he almost fell back in surprise at its contents.

It was an old bolt-action rifle, the kind he only read about in history books. The stock was made of a dark reddish brown wood, and covered in scratches and etched messages. On the butt of the rifle, there several rows of notches, the kind he would make to track wins and losses in games with his sister.

"What's a gun doing here?"

"Charles!" Ray protested. "Put that way! That looks scary…"

"I found it inside one of the boxes. Why would something like this be here?"

"I don't know but I don't like the look of it! Put it back."

Charles simply shrugged and was about to place the empty weapon away. However, the gun was so heavy he could barely hold it. It slipped in his hand, and clattered to the ground with a loud thud, loud enough for all to hear.

"Now you've done it!" Ray scolded. "Everyone is going to find us now, you big klutz!"

"Let's just get out of here before Mom and Dad show up!"

The two children hurriedly put away all of their findings, and tried their best to close up the boxes. They had to eliminate any trace that they were here. Ray was not about to walk away without something to look at, and grabbed a newspaper clipping before closing the last box. As they hurried towards the latter, Charles reminded her,

"I told you this was a bad idea!"

"You're right," a familiar voice said. "It was."

Just then, the two children looked to the direction of the voice and their faces went pale with recognition and fear. They were spotted by their parents. Their father had his hands on his hips, wearing a look of disapproval while the mother had a wry expression on her face.

"Charles, Ray," Renton demanded. "explain yourselves. NOW."

"Well, w-we, um…" Charles managed, "I was against this from the start! It was all _her_ fault. She dragged me into it, as usual!"

"You traitor!" Ray protested. "You were pretty interested in checking out that gun, last I checked!"

"Yeah, but that's—!"

"I'm not interested in whose idea it was!" Renton scolded harshly. "What were you doing in there?"

"…we were just looking through some old boxes…" Ray muttered, defensively. "We were trying to find some stuff from that time." Renton cocked his head to one side, confused.

"That time?"

"You know…the war? That time you never like to talk about?"

Renton stopped, and wondered if this was merely a sign. It was a constant with them, and hardly abnormal. It would be strange if children did not ask about their parents' past lives, but even so, there were some things that they could not learn. The suffering he and their mother endured. The numerous sacrifices made. The countless days spent in fear.

 _DING-DONG._

The doorbell rang, and the normally harsh moment of reprimand was interrupted. Their guests were here. The children almost forgot the position they were in and started to rush for the door, but Renton caught them by their collars.

"I didn't say you could leave yet!"

"But Daaaaad…!"

Eureka whispered to him quietly.

"I'll see to the door. Don't be too harsh, dear."

Renton's angered expression slowly turned into a melting bowl of mush as soon as Eureka pressed her lips into his ear.

"S-sure, honey," Renton replied with a small smile to his face.

The young siblings felt their collars being released and they turned around to see Renton clearing his throat.

"We'll talk about this after dinner, but you're cleaning up after our guests! Got it?"

Charles and Ray nodded and saluted more sharply than young recruits.

"Yes, father!"

The children ran off to the dining room to help set up the table, while Renton only looked on, smiling lightly. Even if they caused him trouble from time to time, and some days he nearly pulled his hair out, he would not trade those children for anything. They were his and his wife's joy. The living proof of how much they loved one another.

At the front parlor, the doorbell rang again, and Eureka hurriedly trotted up to the entrance.

"Coming! Coming!"

With a turn of the brass lock and a swinging of the white doorframe, Eureka was greeted with the smiling, familiar faces of regular guests. It was her brother Holland and his wife of almost ten years, Talho.

In ten years, Holland had physically changed little, other than slowly climb up the ladder of the 303rd Militia Regiment. He was out of his uniform for the day, wearing a lightweight dress shirt and black jacket with matching slacks. He even kept his father's old yellow scarf, despite the overwhelming summer heat. The small black stubble that passed for a beard and the grown-out sideburns tickled her smooth porcelain skin as they hugged tightly.

Talho joined in the hug, not minding the wrinkles on her white blouse and the pleats in her deep violet skirt. It could still be a shock to see her without her uniform, despite her being out of the militia for more than ten years.

"We're so glad you could come, brother!" Eureka greeted cheerfully. "I almost didn't recognize you without your uniform."

"Of course, we came, little sister!" Holland laughed. "There was no way I would pass up family get-together for the world."

"Even if we did," Talho joked, "we would never hear the end of it from Aleksandr. He really wanted to see Charles and Ray again."

A little child of nine peeked out from behind Talho's dress, and his hazel eyes grew wide with joy at the sight of his aunt. He embraced her around her leg, since it was as high he could go.

"I'm here, Aunt Eureka! It's so good to see you!"

"Good to see you as well, Sasha!" Eureka replied, embracing her young nephew. "Please, come right in. Charles and Ray are preparing the table."

"Great," Talho cheered, nodding, "I am getting kind of hungry. I wonder what sort of dish you whipped up this time?" Eureka smirked knowingly.

"Hmmm…you'll see soon enough."

"It's better as a surprise," Renton added, joining his wife in the parlor. "What's more fun than the anticipation, am I right?"

At the sight of his brother-in-law, Holland grinned, his gold teeth flashing like an expensive chandelier. Renton was almost overwhelmed by him as he grabbed and held him tightly, almost lifting him up off the ground. He was still a strong man, in more ways than one.

"There you are, hayseed!" Holland laughed heartily.

"Hello to you too, brother..." Renton said somewhat uneasily. "Glad you could make it. I wanted to show you the new crop I just planted. I'm thinking of switching things up and adding some sunflowers to the fields."

"And how are the livestock? I heard Ray had a fun time cleaning up some manure a while ago."

Ray, who was in earshot while finishing with the table set, turned around with a flushed face of embarrassment.

"NO WAY! It was NOT fun at all!"

Holland laughed once more and patted his feisty niece on the head.

"You've grown in a steady pace, little Ray. It won't be long until find yourself a boyfriend."

"Uncle Holland…!"

Charles and Renton laughed at the girl's expense, enjoying her reactions. Ray only blushed in embarrassment, but her mood did not sour completely when she saw who came into the dining room. Her cousin and good friend, Aleksandr. They regularly played together, so it was always a joy when one visited the other.

"Don't let Dad get you down too much," the older cousin reassured her. "That's how he's always been."

"He even comes down on me a lot," Renton admitted.

At that Holland locked one arm around Renton's neck and laughed again.

"And I'll never stop, hayseed!"

"Ow, hey, watch it!"

Renton protested as the whole family laughed at the brothers-in-law and their antics. Even after ten years, there were some things that never changed.

"It's time for dinner, you all," Eureka called from the kitchen. "Who is up for salmon and mushrooms?"

"We are!" all three children cheered in unison.

That was all she needed to hear, and she brought out the main dishes into the dining room. Without further delay, dinner was served.

Over the course of a few hours, the whole room was alive with the clatter of silverware and overlapping conversation. Holland, however, was too busy taking seconds of salmon and mushrooms. Eureka was certainly not joking when she said to Renton it was his favorite.

"My word, Holland, are you eating for two as well?" Renton asked jokingly, taking a drink of orange juice.

"It's not often you get good food like this in the militia, Rentoshka. After a while you start to hate getting standard-issue rations all the time."

"I know that feeling all too well, brother," Renton agreed.

"Say, Uncle, what's it like in the Militia?" Ray asked.

"You recently made captain, I heard," Eureka added, her curiosity piqued. "I guess the Korean war earned you some points with Colonel Volkov?" Holland nodded.

"Yeah, I did. Though I don't do as much fighting as I did in Korea. The most I get to do now is train new recruits in how to fight back a communist invasion, or what to do in a nuclear blast."

Ray slumped in her chair, pouting.

"You talk about your war days all the time, so why can't Dad...?" Renton glanced at his daughter sternly.

"After dinner, I said."

"That's what you always say," Ray counterpointed before averting her gaze from her father.

"Hey…Ray…" Charles reasoned.

"I've noticed it, too," Aleksandr thought aloud. "You don't like to talk about the war too much, Uncle Renton. Why is that?"

Renton set down his fork and sighed. It was not a moment in his life he often liked to revisit, and he had tried his best to move on from it. Sometimes, the shadows of the past never leave.

"It was…a difficult time for me, and for all of us, Sasha. There were often days when I thought I wasn't going to live. There were many days when I thought I would never be a father, or get married because of what was happening."

Ray's furrowed eyebrows slowly began to soften as she heard her father's thoughts on his youth.

"Back then, it would have been so easy to let danger overwhelm me and set me free. Back then…"

Renton looked at his messy plate and imagined the faces of those who were lost to him throughout those years of lost innocence.

"Back then, I wasn't strong enough to keep those I cared about safe. I was arrogant. I thought I was going to find Eureka and live happily ever after. But, it wasn't easy. I bled and sweated through the dastard paths until there were no more to follow."

"Dad…" Charles managed.

Renton looked up at his whole family again, with a huge grin on his face.

"But that's the past. Right now, I am here, and I'll be damned if I let such a life like this pass by me without a second thought."

"Hear, hear," Holland agreed, slapping his hand on the table. "No sense in quibbling over past mistakes. The world will not wait for us, and will not give us a second chance."

"That's true," Eureka acknowledged. "We've suffered a lot, but who hasn't? We've all moved past our regrets. Moving forward is the only way to do it."

"Besides, we're all parents now," Talho quipped, "Our children will be the ones to experience the joys and woes of life."

Aleksandr, Charles, and Ray, were all at a loss for what their parents were talking about. Either way, it brought the mood back into the dinner table as the banter continued.

"Oh, that reminds me!" Charles looked to his cousin. "We got a new piece of the playground in the backyard. You wanna see it?"

Aleksandr's hazel eyes lit up at the prospect.

"Really? Do I?"

"Dad, can we be excused?" Ray asked sincerely.

"Did you eat everything on your plate?" Eureka countered.

"Yes, we did!" the children all said in unison.

To prove they were not lying, the all showed their plates, and indeed, they had all been wiped clean, save for some streaks of sauce from the salmon and mushrooms. Renton smiled approvingly and said.

"All right, then. Go out and have fun, but don't stay out past sunset!"

"We won't!" they all promised.

All three children left the table in a hurry, and raced each other towards the back porch of the house. Eureka called out after them in concern.

"Don't run too fast! You'll get cramps!" Renton could only chuckle lightly.

"I sometimes wonder if they will have as big adventures as we did."

"With any luck," Holland quipped, chomping on a last bit of mushroom, "the adventures they have won't be as dangerous as ours were!"

"I hope you're right about that, brother."

Renton looked down at his empty plate, pensive. All this time, he kept many things secret from his daughter and son. Things he would rather bury deep down in the center of the earth. Things he wished would have never happened. However, life had other plans for him as soon as they grew older. Ray, his oldest, had the stubborn blood running through her veins and longed to learn about the lost history of the war. Charles, on the other hand, understood the dangers that would entail and took after Eureka during her younger days. Back when she was a docile and meek girl of 15.

"Renton?" Eureka asked, glancing at her husband.

He didn't move to look up, and only sat lost in his thoughts, his memories of those momentous years. The years when everything he knew changed forever.

"They'll have to learn one of these days, darling. We can't shield them forever."

"But…they are still so young. They won't understand…"

"Holland had to wait a while before Aleksandr first asked," Talho recounted. "He was learning about the war in history class, and he had to talk to someone he knew who lived during that time. It was for a project."

"It's going to happen one way or another," Holland mused to himself. "Though, Aleksandr was really thrilled by it all. I still remember one question he asked me about that time. He said, 'Dad, were you a hero in the war?'"

The old militia officer looked up at his friend, still lost in a trance at his plate. It was a phase he went through whenever he was reminded of that time.

"I told him no. But I fought with heroes."

With a heavy sigh, Renton looked at the family he longed to have for much of his life. Tatiana, his childhood friend-turned wife. Holland, his oldest friend and now blood brother. Talho, a resolute former soldier and beloved sister-in-law.

"You can't hide it forever, dear," Eureka consoled him. "Especially not from Ray. She has too much of her father in her."

"I know," he said quietly. "That's what drives me nuts."

A small laugh rippled across the dinner table as Eureka stood up.

"Does anyone want dessert? I had a black forest cake made special at the bakery today."

"Cake? Oh hell, yes!" Talho cheered.

The thought of sweets sent everyone into a frenzy, and Eureka scurried into the kitchen to fetch it.

When the sun finally dipped in the sky, and with the farm bathed in twilight, the time had come for both families to go their separate ways. At the front door, the three children were making promises of having another adventure next time.

"We'll come to Bellforest next week," Ray swore. "Where should we go?"

"Why don't we go see Captain Sorel?" Aleksandr suggested. "His apartment is not too far from ours."

Holland explained the suggestion to Renton in private.

"Dominic's been hanging around the militia office a lot more these days since Korea. His daughter likes to play with Sasha sometimes."

"How is he these days?" Renton asked. "It's been a few weeks since he last came over."

Talho smiled knowingly.

"Anemone and Sophie keep him occupied whenever he's not at the army base or at the militia office." Renton only laughed.

"Yeah, that sounds like Walt, alright. We'll all pay him a visit next time we see each other."

"Deal!"

"How has William been doing?" Eureka asked. "I heard he's made mentoring fresh faced employees now."

"His auto repair shop has been holding well," Talho remarked. "And it helps pay for Mr. Thurston' medical treatment."

"His Okinawa wounds are still causing problems?" Renton thought aloud. "That's kind of surprising. I'll have to check in on him next time we're there."

"Oh, I'm sure Martha can take care of him just fine," Eureka reassured him. "She's been very good ever since she and Will married."

The old friends shook hands on it and everyone said their goodbyes before parting. The Novikov headed towards their car, a black Ford Packard that had served them well for seven years. The children kept waving as the car pulled out of the driveway, and peeled off to the left. Down the road to the south. To Bellforest. To Renton's old home, filled with memories.

Even as the sun was going down, and the car continued off, the whole family kept waving. Perhaps it was simply their own means of assurance that things would continue on tomorrow, like they had done always. Another harvest, another planting, and another family visit were the things Renton could reliably count on in the years since the end of that time.

That momentous time that he tried so hard to move on from. The times when he shed the innocence of childhood and became a man. The times when he saw the whole world change before his eyes, and he understood the truth about life.

The times that his daughter Ray was desperate to learn more about.

Renton felt a tug at his pants, and one jade eye saw his daughter, looking up hopefully at him.

"Dad," she said warily, "you promised, remember?"

His throat dried up, remembering what he told them. Even though he said so, it still did not feel right to him. Both Charles and Ray were so young, and it was unlikely they would understand everything if he explained it to them. He feared it would damage them, just when they were discovering the joys of life. Just as the horrors and terrors damaged him, and all of them.

But a gentle hand rested on his shoulder, and Eureka smiled at him confidently.

"It's time, dear. They have the same look in their eyes you did when you came back to Stalingrad."

He bit his lip, and saw that even Charles, unassuming and meek Charles, had his eyes lit up with anticipation. One day, they would not be children anymore. One day, they would grow up, and raise families of their own. One day, they would learn that there was sadness in the world as well as happiness. As much as he wanted to deny it, as much as he wished that their youths would last forever, one day, they would have to learn.

Renton sighed resignedly, and ran his fingers through the greyed-out lock of hair between his eyes. Well, it was not like he had to tell them _everything_ in one go.

"Okay, I _did_ promise. Come with me to the attic, kids. I have a few things to show you."

The children cheered and almost tripped over each other as they ran up the stairs towards the attic. Renton looked on for a moment, smiling wistfully at his offspring. They did have the same adventurous spirit he and his friends did not long ago. When everything was beautiful. But would they live to regret knowing?

Eureka seemingly out of clairvoyance, wrapped one arm around his waist.

"They'll be alright, Rentoshka, and thousands more like them. They should know how their father saved me and everyone else."

"More like you saved me. God knows where I would be if it weren't for you."

He nuzzled his wife and cradled her briefly, silently remembering how, despite all the horrors he had to endure in the past, his life was better now. He had a beautiful, loving wife, and they produced two children who, despite their occasional mishaps and troubles, filled his life with bliss. His lips gently brushed Eureka's cheek and he whispered,

"We'll pick up what we started in the kitchen later."

Eureka could only laugh at his amorous nature, and lightly shoved him towards the stairs.

He traveled up to the attic, and went through the "Miscellaneous" boxes for the children to see. For what felt like hours, he regaled them with stories of the war. His victories. His losses. Stories of young love. Stories of being confronted with the reality of war. The many friends and enemies he made along the way. What he gave up to be there with them now.

Until the sun had disappeared from the sky, and the time had come for them to go bed, Charles and Ray still wanted to learn more. Surprisingly, they were not turned away from his many yarns, but were enthralled to learn the truth about their father. How he was a hero to many people. How he saved their mother from certain death. But he promised them before tucking them into bed that there would be another opportunity to learn more.

"I have all the time in the world with you, now," he said. "I'm not going anywhere, so you'll hear more. I promise."

In the sweets of sleep, after another night of oneness with his wife, Renton was no longer tortured by terrifying nightmares. What was once a dark flashback from his past was now a glowing harbinger of his future. The future that he, for so long, coveted: a life away from the sounds of guns, artillery, and tanks. A life with his love by his side. A life fulfilled, complete. A life with a family to call his own.

Just as he wanted since the beginning.

»»»»»

 **Coda**

 **Nadia Gennadievna Shevtsova (aka Agent 340) (1920-1963)**

With the war's conclusion, Nadia Shevtsova defected to the United States and joined the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) in 1947. In the opening years of the Cold War, she was a successful spy and provided invaluable intelligence about the Soviet Union, including potential plans for a Soviet invasion of Western Europe. While committed to a life of secrecy, Nadia didn't forget Renton Thurston, and found time to correspond with him. In 1959, she was posted to Cuba to document Soviet assistance to the Cuban communists and Fidel Castro. Nadia was discovered by the Cuban militia during the 1961 Bay of Pigs invasion, handed over to the Soviet Union, and executed for treason in 1963.

 **Piotr "Petya" Sergeyevich Sokolov (1925-1996)**

Petya left the Red Army as one of the youngest and most decorated commissioned officers of the war, and aided in the reconstruction efforts in Stalingrad. After marrying Natasha, he became manager of the Red October Steel Factory, and continued to exchange letters with Renton while fathering two children. They eventually met one last time in 1993 at a gathering of Stalingrad veterans. He never left his native city in almost 50 years.

 **Natalya "Natasha" Antonovna Sokolova (nee Badanova) (1926-2000)**

Trading in her sniper rifle for an engagement ring, Natasha retired from the Red Army and ended her sniping career with more than 150 confirmed kills. She returned to Stalingrad and aided in the reconstruction along with Petya and the rest of First Company. Petya and Natasha were wed in 1951, going on to birth two twin daughters, Elena and Tamara. She met Renton and Eureka one last time in 1993 at a reunion of Stalingrad veterans. She never left her native Stalingrad and never left her husband's side for the rest of her life.

 **Ken-Goh Dmitrievich Fyodorev (1924-2001)**

An exemplary service record saw Ken-Goh honorably discharged from the Red Army in 1949. His role in the city's reconstruction consumed most of his time until he found a satisfying job in an art studio, where he began his career as a painter. Ken-Goh's paintings of Renton Thurston were confiscated by the Soviet authorities on suspicions of subversion. Besides art, he also wrote memoirs about his life in the Red Army during the war. While his art struggled to find an audience, his memoirs were a bestseller of Soviet postwar literature.

 **Holland Petrovich Novikov (1926-2011)**

Holland continued his service in the Bellforest militia, seeing action in the Korean War (1950-1953). His dedication and bravery saw him rise in the ranks to colonel and eventual command of the 303rd Regiment. During the Vietnam War (1956-1975) Holland was a subject of controversy for his violent handling of a draft riot. After the militia's disbandment in 1974, he became a police officer and continued to commit himself to the safety of his newfound home. He retired from the police force in 1989 after suffering a stroke, and died in 2011. Throughout his life, he never stopped refighting his battles, and he never stopped wondering what might have been.

 **Talho Andreevna Novikova (nee Yukieva) (1926- )**

Talho received an honorable discharge from the Bellforest militia in 1945 at the rank of second lieutenant. She married Holland in 1946 and would raise one son, Aleksandr. Despite being a fulltime mother, she and her husband regularly found time to visit the Thurston farm. She currently resides in her old apartment in Bellforest, and has two grandchildren serving in the National Guard.

 **Dominic Sorel (1925- )**

Despite the rigors of actual combat placing a great strain on him, Dominic stayed on in the United States Army. He would see action in both Korea and Vietnam, eventually finishing his career in 1992 as a lieutenant colonel. Outside of his military service, however, Dominic maintained a relatively peaceful life with Anemone, fathering a daughter named Sophie. They still reside in their apartment in Bellforest to this day.

 **Anemone Sorel (nee Doolittle) (1926- )**

Anemone would go on to become a practicing nurse, a Red Cross member and a mother, but never forgot her friends. She would always find time to drop in on Renton and write to her friends overseas. Her medical work often led to her following Dominic on his tours of combat duty, treating wounded soldiers in both Korea and Vietnam. While some Army officers had their suspicions, the men of Dominic's command treated her like one of their own. She and Dominic currently have three grandchildren serving in the Army, carrying on the tradition of service to country.

 **Eureka Petrovna Thurston (nee Novikova) (1927-2014)**

After the war, Eureka returned home to America, and married Renton in 1947. She settled into Renton's old farm, and birthed and raise two children, Charles and Ray. Eureka only revisited her native Stalingrad once in 1993, to attend a gathering of World War II veterans for the battle's 50th anniversary. There she met her old friends Petya and Natasha one last time. Eureka died at the age of 87, and is currently buried beside her husband on the Thurston farm. She never regretted meeting Renton, and never stopped loving him.

 **Renton Ivanovich Thurston (1926-2013)**

Despite the urging of his teachers and others, Renton never joined the armed forces after the war. Instead he rebuilt and returned to his farm in 1947. As Renton envisioned, he and Eureka ran the farm together as a family business: they planted corn, bought horses for their children, and sold their crops at the market. Occasionally he would receive visits from the Novikovs or the Sorels, but led a quiet, peaceful life otherwise; he wanted it no other way. Renton never left his home until 1993, when he attended a reunion of Red Army veterans at Stalingrad. Upon his death, Renton received a modest funeral and was buried on his farm, beside his mother's grave. He was 86 years old. He is survived by two grandchildren, one of whom serves in the United States Marine Corps.

Although Renton Thurston was revered and celebrated as a hero in the United States, the Soviet Union under Josef Stalin took every effort to wipe his contribution to World War II from popular memory. His name was struck out of public records, his participation in Stalingrad kept secret, and no monument was built to commemorate him. All who knew or fought with him were subject to intense scrutiny and barred from high-level jobs by the Communist Party. It was not until the collapse of communism and the subsequent opening of Soviet government archives did his participation in Stalingrad and his relationship with the Novikov family become public to Russian citizens.

Even then, no records were found detailing his final struggle with Lieutenant Ilya Chertov or Colonel Dewey Novikov's grand plan for an invasion of Europe.

In ancient days, men commemorated their heroes with monuments and memorials, legends and ballads. They turned to the skies and saw their heroes in the constellations, each star telling a story which revealed why their names lived forever. In modern days, we do much the same, but our heroes are epic men and women of flesh and blood. We see monuments to their lives and deeds everywhere, even in the loneliest corners of the world. From the highest victory column to the smallest memorial plaque, we ensure that while men like Renton Thurston may die, their deeds will live on.

By preserving their memory, their names will endure, and heroes will never truly die.

 **THE END**

* * *

 **A/N: ...and so it ends. A project that took me all of five years to complete finally is complete. It's been a long and at times difficult journey to get here. I've gone through multiple jobs, graduate school, my father's death, and journeys abroad to finally get to this moment. I feel a lot of emotions now that this is over. Relief, pride, but also sadness. I'm sad that this has to end, because despite it taking so long and sometimes being a bumpy road, I have met many good people through this and made some new friends. I've gained invaluable knowledge and sharpened my writing skills as I've gone. But I can't take all of the credit for this.**

 **I would not have been able to finish this (or at least, not in the same amount of time) were it not for many reviews on this website, the countless critiques and suggestions. I especially have to thank FanFiction user Shashandra7.0 for her readiness and willingness to help, suggestions, ideas, and even co-authorship. You have my deepest thanks. I never would have gotten this far without you.**

 **I also have to thank SupremeCommanderSimon609 and CromwellCruiser for their steady stream of reviews and feedback. Knowing that you guys cared about the story is what kept me going.**

 **Outside of Fanfiction, I've also encountered artists on deviantART and Tumblr who made brilliant artwork to help me visualize scenes and inspire me. To all of them, you are truly talented, kind, and understanding people, and you have my respect. I can never hope to repay you for all the great work you've done.**

 **To every reader who took the time to sift through each chapter and leave a review, both past and present, you are truly great people.**

 **So what happens now? Rest assured, I'm not giving up writing. This was too fun and too rewarding for me to just toss away completely. However, given just how long and arduous this novel series was, I doubt seriously if I will make another multi-volume series again. It requires a lot of time and effort that, in the near future, will be hard to come by. I've finished graduate school, but once summer is over, I will be looking for a permanent job and that will consume much of my time, so I can't afford to write another long epic series like this.**

 **In addition, while the Eureka 7 movie trilogy is coming up, and there are those who think I should make another contribution, frankly I don't think I can. It's not that I don't love Eureka 7 enough, but rather I know when the time has come to pass the baton. There will be a new generation of fans coming into our fold when the movies come out, and I trust they will have plenty of stories and artwork to share. Besides which, after a massive novel-length series like this, I would be under tremendous pressure to top what I posted on here, and I think I would only be setting everyone up for disappointment if I tried.**

 **Sometimes, being part of a fandom is knowing when you have given all you can give, and when to let others have their shot. So it is here.**

 **Despite that, I will keep writing other shorter stories, and not all of them are historical either. I don't want to disclose any future stories I have, since you all know me for not giving stuff away, but this foray into the World War II era will not be my last. It fascinates me too much to just let it go.**

 **I hope you all enjoyed this trip back in time, to a time when there were no Coralians, no LFOs, no massive flying ships, but just ordinary men and women from all over the world caught up in extraordinary events, events that shaped this world forever.**

 **And with the guns at last silenced, the victory parades over, and the adventure at last complete, I lay my pen to rest.**

 **Thank you all, and God bless you.**

 **Historyman101**


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